


Against The Odds

by PrincessDystopia



Series: Against The Odds [1]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cigarettes, Complete, F/M, Fanfiction, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Love, Miscarriage, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, POV Original Character, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 70,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessDystopia/pseuds/PrincessDystopia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ridley Gillespie is your typical woman: she holds down her own home, pays her own bills, and often finds herself at her local pub. Nothing too strange or extraordinary about her. That is, until the return of a man she figured to be long dead eight years ago. </p><p>When Murphy MacManus kicks down the door into Ridley's life, she struggles with accepting the fact that he left without a goodbye. No note, no hugs or kisses, not even a damned "see you later" drink. Nothing. </p><p>Now, as her job dangles by a thread and overwhelming memories of a love long passed constantly sneak their way into her mind, she finds herself wrapped up in the acts of the Saints again. Ridley must balance making it to work on time, keeping herself alive, and trying to find it in herself to forgive Murphy for saving her, fixing her, then shattering everything that once made her whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Headline Heartbreak

_Now._

The haze of cigarette smoke clouds my mind as I toss back another whiskey sour. I cringe even though I know what my usual tastes like. No matter how many times I order them, however, the intense wave of tang always catches me off-guard. Slapping my empty glass onto the counter, I lift my heavy gaze to the old man standing behind the bar. His mouth presses into a thin line of disappointment. 

“Just one more,” I slur, trying my hardest to keep my head up. “I-I'll call a cab, I swear.” I really have no intentions of calling a cab – not when I live only a mile away. 

“I'm c-cuttin' ya off, sweetheart,” Doc informs me as he takes the glass from my locked fingers. “And I'll call the c-c-cab this ti – _Fuck! Ass!_ – time.”

“C'mon, Doc,” I moan, my head falling into my folded arms. “I just – One more won't kill me.”

The old bartender stutters some sort of backwards piece of advice as he saunters toward the phone, but I can't understand a word he's saying. Dragging my head up, I glower through the mirror behind the mountain of alcohol bottles just beyond the bar. Just one glance at my tired eyes is enough to bury my face in my hands and let out a pitiful groan. God, I look like complete and utter shit in the most literal sense of the word. My hair, usually tied back into a tight ponytail, frames my face like a rat's nest. Bags of exhaustion settle underneath my hazel eyes. A crimson booze blush kisses my cheeks.

“Cab's on its w-w-way,” Doc calmly tells me, reaching over the counter to pat my arm. Then, he turns his head, a look of anger flashing across his wrinkled face. “Fuck! Ass! Don't ya be worryin' ab-about yer tab, ya hear me?”

I nod -- or at least I think I do -- before mumbling a quiet, “Loud and clear.” My face smacks hard against the wooden counter. My night comes to a pathetic close.

(-)

As my swollen eyes crack open the next morning, I desperately grab for the cup of water I distinctly remember placing on my bedside table just before I collapsed into my fourposter. My mouth feels as if the sun has sucked every drop of moisture from it. A dull headache sits behind my left eye. My hands hit my books, my alarm clock, my cell phone – but no glass.

“The fuck?” I hiss, lifting an arm to shield my eyes from the light seeping in through my window. I peer over the edge of my bed only to find shattered glass spewed in every direction. Before I have the chance to throw a pity party for myself, my phone begins to vibrate.

 _“The boys are back! The boys are back! The boys are back! And they're looking for trouble!”_

I try to ignore the fact that someone is trying to speak to me for only just a moment. It isn't very often that I hear it, but _The Boys Are Back_ by the Dropkick Murphys is one of my favorite songs, so I try to enjoy it at every chance I get. Finally, after the third repeat of the chorus, I bring the small device to my ear. 

“Ridley, where the hell are you?!” Tracey, my boss, shrieks over the phone. I close my eyes and let out a silent sigh. “You do realize you're two hours late for work, right?! Do you know how many times I've tried to call you?!”

“I don't know, four...hundred?” I answer lazily, wrapping a cluster of my greasy midnight black hair around my pointer fingers. I stretch my legs out in front of me, inspecting a series of four cuts on my thigh, caked with dried blood. “Am I hitting the nail on the head?”

I can almost hear her acrylic nails digging into her metal desk. “Do you even want this job anymore?” she hissed lowly. 

“Yes, yes,” I reply, rolling my eyes so far into the back of my head that I'm worried for a moment that they won't come back. “I'll be there in an hour. Don't have a shit fit. You'd better have my write-up ready.” I hang up on her just as I hear her inhale for another scream. Part of me wants Tracey to call back just so I could hear the song once more, but when my phone remains silent, I soon give up and lift myself room my bed with a defeated huff. 

As I trudge through my apartment toward my bathroom, I kick aside a dirty pile of clothes that I can never remember to take to the laundry mat. I curl my nose at the horrid smelling kitchen sink, overfilled with dishes that I haven't touched in a good month. I decide against going near it; I can just drink shower water. All in all, I guess you could say I live in a pig sty. Not that I complain about it or anything; the mess is entirely my fault. I just can't bring myself to get around to cleaning. 

My bathroom is just the same as the rest of my home: elastic hair ties litter the sink and floor, empty shampoo bottles have been thrown around nonchalantly, and bare toilet paper tubes fill the small trashcan. If I had the money, mind you, I would definitely hire a maid, but that's not the case. Not by a long shot. 

After striping myself of the clothes I wore the night before, I slip into the shower and start with my leg first. Whatever happened to me remains a complete mystery. After falling asleep at McGinty's, I have no recollection of my actions or words. As I scrub the dried blood from my skin, I only hope that I'd gotten into a fight with that damned hobo who gets a hard-on by shouting obscenities at me every time I walk his alley. Before I know it, I'm clean and maybe an entirely different woman. 

Watch out, world! Ridley Gillespie has showered and is ready to take on the day at two in the afternoon!

I rush from my apartment, nearly forgetting to lock my door on the way out, obsessively checking my watch. I hate the damn thing, but other than my phone – which is stored away in my purse and I have no motivation to dig through my belongings to find it – it's the only source of time that I have. Five minutes. I have five minutes before the city bus takes off from the stop. My pace picks up and suddenly, I'm sprinting down the sidewalk. 

“Yeah, girl!” a local construction worker hollers as I run by. “I like the way yer ass looks when you run! Don't go too far! My eyes aren't that good!” His three other buddies break out into a roar of deep laughter. Not having time to turn on my heel and shove my screams down their throats, I lift my middle finger over my shoulder and continue to run. 

I arrive just in time to catch the bus. The driver scans my monthly card and I squish myself next to an old woman and her grandson. The boy, who can't be a day older than four, stares at me like I'm some sort of alien. God, I hate kids. 

The bus lurches forward. I grab hold of the metal bar above my head so I don't topple over and squish the tiny body next to me. The vehicle is eerily quiet, which is usually normal on Sundays. But on a Tuesday? The place should be filled with what sounds like a million different voices. On my left, a man clears his throat and crinkles the giant newspaper blocking his face. My eyes trail over to the print facing me. 

**“BOSTON PREIST FOUND DEAD: WORK OF THE BOONDOCK SAINTS?”**

My lungs feel like all the air has leaked from my body and my stomach drops. Inside my gut, bile churns painfully. “Holy fuck,” I whisper, but not quietly enough. The old woman next to me makes a sound of offense like I just called her a fat old bitch. “Sorry.”

I take deep inhales through my nose and exhales through my mouth. My palms become so sweaty that I release the bar to wipe them on my pants. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. They sound almost like gunshots. Trying to focus on the streets outside the windows, I remind myself that I'm almost to work and then I can be distracted.

After all, they left for Ireland eight years ago without so much as a goodbye. The odds of them killing that priest are one in a million.


	2. Virgin Drinks

_Then._

I met the MacManus brothers on a sullen St. Patrick's Day when I was twenty-one. Fresh from the pile of college drop-outs, I'd moved my way from Sacramento, California to Boston, Massachusetts with my shitbag of a boyfriend only a month before as somewhat of a rebellious act against my parents. After a long, drawn-out fight, I found myself alone at an Irish pub down the street from our apartment.

When I first opened the doors to McGinty's, I was greeted like I was already part of a family that regularly had dinners together every Sunday night. A crowd of drunken men cheered upon my arrival and lifted their glasses toward me. I flashed a shy smile and edged myself onto a table furthest from the bar. I just wanted a few hours alone to watch people make idiots of themselves. 

“Evenin', lass!” an old man practically yelled as he approached me. He wore a black apron, so I automatically assumed he worked there. “Wh-What'll ye be havin'? _Fuck! Ass!_ ”

His outburst startled me to the point of cowering from him, pushing my hair to cover my left eye. I didn't mean to – it was just that I didn't think I could take that level of voice again. Almost instantly, his smile dropped into a hard frown. “So-Sorry,” I stammered. “I'm just a little on edge right now.”

“My ap-ap-apologies,” the man stuttered, this time much calmer. “Got a b-b-bit of Tourettes, I do. C-Can't help it.” He held a giant hand out toward me, flashing his smile again. “A b-bit new to the area, are ya? Ain't s-seen yer face b'fore. Ya can c-call me D-D-Doc.”

Before I could shake his hand, two men appeared at his side, wrapping their arms around his neck in a playful manner. They both looked to be in their mid-twenties. “Doc?” one of them questioned in a heavy Irish accent. “Don't ya mean yer name is Fuck-Ass?” Exchanging cocky glances, the two broke out into a melodious laughter. 

I fought back my own smile as I slipped my hand into Doc's. “Its nice to meet you,” I told him, wondering if he actually heard me. The two men stumbled into the seats across from me. The first thing I noticed was the matching tattoos on the left side of their necks. I couldn't make out what they were, though. 

The two each held their opposing hands out to me. I could almost see the drunken haze in their eyes. “Connor,” the first said, a tattoo reading “Veritas” running along his pointer finger. 

“Murphy,” the other added. “Aequitas” had been tattooed in the same spot as the other. 

“MacManus,” they finished simultaneously. “The pleasure is ours.”

I felt an overwhelming sense of humiliation as I placed my hands into theirs. They brought my knuckles to their lips and gently planted a kiss on my skin. At first, I wanted to yank my hands from them, but the last thing I wanted was to come off as rude, especially in a town where I basically had nobody. 

“Ridley Gillespie,” I said, paying notice to the blush forming on my face. “You're brothers?”

“Twins, actually,” Murphy replied, grinning at his brother. “Fraternal, o'course. If only we'd been identical, Connor would've gotten my good looks. Poor bastard.”

Connor rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Ay, Fuck-Ass! Get this lass a drink, would ya?” he yelled, even though Doc was standing only a foot from us. The old man smacked the back of Connor's head with his palm. 

“I'm tr-tryin', ya little shit!” he barked, spittle flying into the younger man's hair. “If ya would shut the hell up f-for two se-seconds!”

I shrunk back into my chair, hoping and praying that Doc wouldn't ask me what kind of drink I wanted. The world of alcohol was still so new to me that I had no idea of any names to tell him. I tried to remember what my mother would drink back home. It was the name of a famous actress, I knew that much. Curly hair...dimples...God, what was her name?

“Can I have a, um,” I started once the three paused in their bickering, “uh, a Shir...Shirley, um...”

“A Shirley Temple?” Connor finished for me, the look of pure disgust written on his face. I nodded slowly. “Ya want that?”

My eyes darted from his face, to Murphy's, then finally to Doc's. “U-Um, I think so,” I mumbled. It felt as if I'd just been scolded by a parent. 

Beside him, Murphy broke out into another drunken fit of laughter. “Yeah, Fuck-Ass! Get the girl a Shirley Temple!” he hollered, peeking sideways at me. I nibbled on my bottom lip uncomfortably, inconspicuously tilting my head for more cover of my hair. “Heavy on the ginger ale! She'd get a helluva buzz from that, yeah?”

Doc glared at the two men, then cast a softer gaze toward me. “Sw-Sweetheart, Shirley T-Temples are v-v-virgins.”

It was like I'd stepped into an entirely different world with a whole new language. “Virgins?” I repeated. “How can a drink never have sex before?” At this, the twins started to laugh again. Connor slammed his palm on the table, tears forming at the edges of his eyes. Murphy curled over, holding his gut with his arms. I suddenly felt like running far from the pub. 

Doc's face turned crimson as he curled his hands into fists and drove them into the back of their heads. “Sh-Shut the f-f-fuck up, you two!” he yelled. 

After grunting in pain, the brothers lifted their eyes to me and mumbled, “Apologies.”

“What do you suggest I order then?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest defensively. 

Murphy didn't hesitate to form his lips into a wide smile and say, “Whiskey sour. Actually, make it three, Fuck-Ass!”


	3. Etched Initials

_Now._

I'm hungover to hell, pounding back my fourth cup of coffee, and so sick to my stomach that I consider sprinting to the bathroom so I don't puke all over my desk. I can't focus on my computer screen in front of me, constantly loading a list of names of people who I need to call today only to sit through another five minutes of screaming before they decide to hang up on me. So far, I've made five calls. I still have thirty more to go and counting. 

“Spend another night with your boyfriend?” 

I lift my heavy gaze to meet the shimmering blue eyes of my bubbly cubicle neighbor peering over the top of the carpeted walls that separate us. Shauna curls her mouth into a sly grin and runs a hand through her curly scarlet locks. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” I tell her because honestly, I don't. 

“Oh c'mon, Ridley, you think I can't smell the booze on you?”

I lift my elbow and take a quick sniff of my armpit. The scent of my lilac deodorant fills my nose. “I showered before I came here,” I defend myself before taking another swig of my cold coffee. I curl my nose at it, making a note that another trip to the microwave is required. 

Shauna looks thoroughly disappointed at my response. “Okay, you caught me, you smell fine, but your eyes looks like shit. Were you at McGinty's again last night?”

Then, it hits me. For the four years that I've known her, Shauna has always poked fun at me, saying that I'm dating Doc because I practically lived in his pub. Finally realizing what she's getting at, I give her a quick nod and pick up my bulky phone. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Me and Doc – man, you should've been there. Raunchy shit. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm insanely busy.” 

She throws me a disbelieving stare before mumbling, “Just worried about you, is all.” Her head disappears from the top of the cubicle. I wait until I hear her voice on the phone to place mine back on the receiver. Snatching my Styrofoam cup in my hand, I stand and stretch my arms high over my head. I sneak past Shauna's cubicle and head for the employee lounge, ignoring the seas of voices around me. 

The lounge is empty when I arrive. I fill my cup with the stale coffee that had been brewed four hours ago and throw it into the microwave. While I wait, a newspaper catches my eye on the circular table to my left. “Don't touch it,” I whisper to myself, curling my fingers around my skirt. It has nothing to do with them. It has to be a misprint or I saw it wrong on the bus. At least, that's what I keep telling myself, but when the microwave beeps to tell me that my coffee is hot and ready, I'm too engrossed in the newspaper to even lift myself from the chair. 

_“Early Sunday morning, a local Boston priest was found shot and killed at the Basilica and Shrine of Our Lady Perpetual Help (more commonly known as The Mission Church),”_ it reads. My eyes continue to scan over the print, my legs bouncing underneath the table a million miles an hour. _“The perpetrator is still at large, but Boston Police Forces have made observations that lead toward the infamous Boondock Saints, who disappeared without a trace eight years ago.”_ I roll my eyes and give a soft snort of bitterness. _“The priest was found with two gunshot wounds to the back of his head and pennies resting over his eyes at the scene of the crime. If you have any leads, please contact the Boston...”_

Two gunshot wounds. Pennies over his eyes. I cover my mouth, forcing down a cry of distress. Killing a priest was something that Murphy and Connor would never do; they both were insanely religious. But then again, I can see why the police are looking in their direction. The pennies were something they always did after killing evil people, as were the twin gunshot wounds in the back of the head. 

Their voices – I swear, I'm still trying to forget what they sound like – ring in my head with the prayer I've heard so many times before. _“And Shepherds we shall be for Thee, my lord, for Thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand. Our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. So we shall flow a river forth to Thee and teeming with souls shall it ever be,”_ I imagine their voices in unison chanting. I rub my palms into my eye sockets, knowing that I'm slowly going crazy. If I didn't know better, I would guess they're standing right behind me saying it. _“In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti.”_

I stand and shove the newspaper into the nearby trashcan, grab my coffee, and stomp from the lounge. Shauna's curious eyes lock onto me as I pass her cubicle. The look on her face worries me; her brows are knit together and her mouth is pulled into a deep frown. She slouches in her chair, which is something new. Usually she sits up perfectly straight. I asked her about it once, but I can't remember the explanation she gave me. Something about sitting and standing straight makes your boobs look bigger. 

“What?” I ask with a mouthful of coffee. “Did someone shit in your cereal?”

“Where were you?” Shauna snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. I lift my cup, looking at her as if she's always supposed to read my mind. “I did your calls while you were gone,” she informs me briskly. “All of them.”

“Oh, cool,” I answer. I know she can't hear the gratitude in my voice, but I really do appreciate it. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me like, four thousand!” she shrieks as I rush back to my own cubicle. 

I carry on my day as if I had never even looked at that newspaper, but the longer I try to push it to the back of my mind, the more detailed Murphy's face becomes behind my eyelids. Even as I sit through countless calls of nothing but customers hollering in my ear, I feel as though their voices are mumbled. I stare at my computer screen, one hand supporting the phone and the other supporting my cheek on the desk. 

There has to be a mistake. There just has to be.

(-)

I sneak into McGinty's behind the roaring college group in front of me. I'm guessing it must be someone's 21st birthday because the leader of the pack is wearing a child's party hat. They whoop loudly and take a seat at the bar, waving Doc over in a frantic manner. I pity the man, but I knew that eventually they would become so drunk that their bank amount wouldn't matter anymore.

Running my finger over the initials etched into the tabletop, I settle myself into the exact same chair I first sat in that St. Patrick's Day eight years ago. Doc shoots me an apologetic glance before spewing a loud, _“Fuck! Ass!”_ The college kids jolt in surprise, but most of them are already so wasted that they just explode in laughter. I lift a quick hand, silently telling the bartender to take his time. I'm really in no hurry. 

While I wait for him to satisfy the rowdy bunch at the bar, I grab for a napkin and place it over the initials. Without even looking at them, my stomach has twisted into knots. What if Murphy and Connor are back? What if they really did kill the priest? What am I going to do if I see them? I can't even fathom the thought of standing in front of either of them again. Just hearing their names pisses me off. 

“So-Sorry 'bout that, lass,” Doc mumbles as he hobbles to my table, wielding his trusty cane. He hates the thing, but is slowly starting to realize just how much he needs it to function these days. “Wh-Whiskey sour?”

I shake my head slowly. “Not tonight,” I tell him. “Um, this is going to sound weird but” – I glance around and drop my voice a few notches – “Murphy and Connor haven't stopped by here, have they?”

The old man stares at me as if I'd just told him his, his mother's, and his father's social security numbers. He pulls a seat next to me, plops himself down, and takes my hands in his wrinkled ones. “I-Is this ab-about the priest b-business?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “Got ya a-all riled u-up, ain't it? _Fuck! Ass!_ Do-Don't you worry a ha-hair on that pretty l-little head 'o yours. I-I've a fe-feelin' th-that they'll b-be stoppin' by soon. I've g-got th-the ol' speakeasy set up f-for 'em, I do.”

Even Doc thinks they're back in Boston, or on their way, at least. I nod slowly, feeling a headache coming on. “You know, Doc, maybe I will take a whiskey sour. Heavy on the whiskey, please.”

Soon enough, I'm a drunk mess again. The college kids are gone before and I know it, I'm staring at the table, trying to figure out what I did wrong for him to just leave the way he did. I stand and press my fingers to the letters that Murphy had carved what felt like decades ago. “RG + MM” will always be a part of McGinty's, as long as Doc is still alive and kicking.

(-)

My phone is vibrating, but maybe its just the plane I'm jumping from in my dream. _“The boys are back! The boys are back! The boys are back! And they're looking for trouble!”_ Definitely not the plane. I force my eyes open and grab for my phone. Whoever is calling me is calling from a number I don't recognize. My alarm clock catches my eye. 2:30 in the damned morning.

“This better me fucking important,” I growl into the phone, “because I love sleeping and you're ruining it for me.”

“Ah, lass, you don't need any beauty sleep,” the voice compliments. I sit upright in bed, my heart beginning to race. 

“M-Murphy?” I breathe. 

“Aye--”

I hang up on him and shove my face back into my pillows. I'm dreaming. I know I'm dreaming. I'll just go back to sleep and wake up and go back to my shitty job and hate my life forever and forever while complaining about how boring it is. _“The boys are ba--”_

“Whoever you are, this isn't funny!” I scream into the phone, so angry that tears are starting to fill my eyes. “Its not a joke! Just leave me alo--”

“Riddles, it really is me,” Murphy's voice tells me. He sounds urgent and annoyed. I heard muttering from his end of the line and suddenly, Connor's voice replaces his.

“Ridley,” he says calmly, “would ya mind openin' yer door? Its a tad freezin' out here.”

“Co-Connor?” I whisper. I have to hold my tiny phone with both hands because I'm trembling so much that I fear I'm going to drop it. 

“Aye.”

Somehow, I find the floor underneath my bed and set my feet on it, lowering my phone into my blankets. On my way to the door, I constantly bite my lower lip and stub my toe on the corners of the walls and my table to wake myself up. Nothing is working and so far, this is the worst dream I've had in years. I thought my last Murphy dream two years ago was the final one, but I was wrong. 

My hand rests on the doorknob. I consider just running back to my bedroom and hiding myself away from the world. I can always turn my phone off, block off my windows, and never leave my apartment again, but something inside me swells. I need to know if they're here, or else this is going to haunt me for another eight years. I pull the door open to find the MacManus brothers standing on each side of a shorter, Hispanic man. 

“I'm glad we've got the right place,” Connor says, a wide grin spreading across his face. “May we?”

I move to the side as they shuffle inside my home. I'm suddenly extremely embarrassed of the mess I've lived in for months. Murphy is the first to glance around, nostalgia written all over his face. “Place ain't changed a bit,” he comments. Then, he turns his gaze to me. “I guess we've got a bit of explainin' to do, don't we?”


	4. Bar Fights And Black Eyes

_Then._

“Ridley!” Murphy shouted, waving me over with his hand. I shot him a grin and excused myself from the women who I was sure were born men. Either way, they liked my earrings enough to ask where I'd bought them from. The Irish man wrapped an arm around my shoulders and motioned his other hand toward someone who heavily resembled a hobo. “This is our buddy, Rocco! Rocco, this is our new lassie, Ridley!”

Rocco smiled underneath his scraggly beard and shook my hand. To my surprise, he pulled me in and kissed my cheek. I hurried to smooth my hair back over my eye. “A pleasure!” he yelled over the laughter next to us. I nodded in agreement, knowing full well that my voice wouldn't travel over the noise. 

“Another round!” Connor ordered, tapping on my shoulder. I turned and allowed Murphy to gently nudge me into the center of the crowd. My stomach pressed against the bar, but not enough to cause any pain. Behind me, the wall of men high-fived each other and embraced whoever was next to them, whether they were friends or not. The entire atmosphere of the bar was so lively and joyful that I found myself wishing I never had to go home. 

While Doc prepared another round of beer, Murphy patted the bar stool at my side. I scooted on and swung my legs side to side, the grin carved onto my face like I was made of stone. It was so hard to feel any sort of negativity around the group. The alcohol inside me slowly started to make me feel like the world was made up of daisies and rainbows and like nothing bad ever happened, that life was always like this and will forever to be like this. 

Time moved so quickly that I didn't even notice the crowd dwindle away behind me. Before I knew it, the only ones left in the bar were three other people besides Murphy, Connor, Rocco, Doc, and myself. I hadn't moved from the stool between the brothers, but sober me would've wished that I did. Sometime during the night, Murphy had lit a cigarette. Being in my drunken state of mind, however, I wasn't tempted to curl my nose in disgust and pull my collar over my nostrils. Instead, I welcomed it with open arms just as they had welcomed me. 

“B-Boys and la-lady, I've go-got some very ba-bad news,” Doc announced, raising his hands to quiet our laughter over a terrible joke that Rocco told us. I couldn't even remember it clearly. All I knew was that it was racist to all hell. “I'm gonna have t-to close do-down the b-b-bar. The R-Russians are b-buyin' up buildings a-all over to-town, includin' this one. Fuck! Ass! And they're n-not lettin' me renew my le-lease.”

A groan of disappointment fell over the group. I glanced around, drunk and confused, until I realized that this pub must've been a big deal for these men for years. I pitied them, but I couldn't find it in myself to feel the same sort of sadness. After all, this place meant practically nothing to me.

From the other side of Murphy, Rocco shook his head and slammed his palm on the counter. “Just let me talk to 'em, all right?” he suggested calmly. “Maybe my boss can do somethin' for ya.”

“Don't be stupid, man,” Murphy scolded, giving his friend a light tap upside his head. 

“Li-Listen fellas,” Doc continued, “I don't want a-anyone to kn-know. Th-That goes for y-you too, sw-sweetheart.” He leaned down to linger at my eye level before breaking out into a smile. “You kn-know what they say: people in gl-glass houses s-si-sink ships.”

The men around me began to laugh once more, but I was too drunk to realize why. “I've gotta buy you like a proverbs book or somethin',” Rocco said, taking another swig of his beer. Or, maybe he was drinking whiskey. It all began to look the same to me at some point. “This mix-and-match shit's gotta go.” I only laughed because Murphy did. 

“A penny saved is worth two in the bush, isn't it?” Connor joked, his lips forming a sly smirk. 

“And don't cross the road if you can't get out of the kitchen,” Murphy added, leaning his head onto my arm. He glanced up at me and for the first time, I realized how gorgeous his blue eyes were. The moment was fleeting, though, because behind us, the door had been kicked open. We stun around in our stools to stare at the bulky figures of three angry-looking men. “Get behind the bar,” Murphy whispered to me, patting my back as I shimmed away from them and did as he told me to. 

“I am Ivan Checkov and you will be closing now,” the largest man said, his voice thick with a Russian accent. His eyes locked on my figure until Murphy let out a snorting sort of noise. 

“Checkov?” he repeated, wrapping an arm around Rocco's shoulders. “Well, this here's McCoy. We find a Spock, we've got an away team.” The pub group started to chuckle a bit uncomfortably. I was too terrified to even make the smallest of noises. 

“I'm in no mood for discussion,” Checkov grunted and lifted a finger toward Doc. “You. You stay. The rest of you, go now!” 

“Wh-Why don't you make like a tree,” Doc started, just when I thought we were in the clear to get out of the night safely, “and get the f-fu-fuck outta here?!”

The look on Checkov's face was enough to send a chill down my spine. I'd seen this so many times before that I knew what was going to happen next, even as the pub group scoffed in their direction and tried to resume their night. From my experience, this was going to turn out badly, very badly. I let out a soft whimper and backed from the counter until my back nudged against the alcohol shelves behind me. I wanted to turn tail and run, but the wall of flesh was blocking the exit. 

“You know he's got 'til the week's end, right?” Connor informed the Russian men. “You don't have to be hard-asses, do ya?” 

I lifted my hands to cover my eyes, peeking through my fingers. “Yeah, it's St. Patty's Day,” Murphy added, a cigarette bouncing between his lips and a glass of some sort of dark alcohol settled in his palm. “Everyone's Irish tonight. Why don't ya just pull up a stool and have a drink with us?” 

Face crimson, Checkov slammed Murphy's glass onto the ground. I let out a quick yelp of surprise lowered down toward the floor, hiding my head between my legs. “No games!” the Russian man shouted. “If you won't go, we will make you go.”

“If ya want to fight, ya can see you're outnumbered here,” Connor said matter-of-factually. “We're tryin' to be civil, so I suggest you take our offer.”

“ _I_ make the offers.”

My shoulders began to tremble with my silent sobs. I never should've come out to a pub by myself, no less. What a dumb idea. Now here I was, wrapped up in some mafia gang shit that had nothing to do with me. I was thoroughly convinced I was going to die. Yeah, I was going to die in a pub full of drunken men that I barely knew. What a way to go. 

“Ay, Borris,” Rocco slurred, “what would you do if I told you that your pinko commie mother sucks so much dick, her face looks like an egg?!” There was a heavy thud and Rocco fell quiet. I automatically assumed he was dead. 

“Fuck you!” Murphy shouted. 

Connor said something then in a completely different language. I lifted my head from the cover of my knees to see what was going on. I was only able to see their heads from where I was sitting, but everyone looked as if they were ready to kill each other. Connor's finger was so close to Checkov's face that he could've picked the man's nose if he really wanted to. Murphy's eyes narrowed into a tight glare as he inched closer.

His mouth moved to form words I'd never heard before. It was amazing and confusing all at once, but the Russian men seemed to understand just as well as I did. Whatever Russian words they were trying to say, they had obviously said them completely wrong. After downing a shot of Fireball, the twins exchanged knowing glances and ducked out of my sight. Checkov let out a heavy grunt and fell forward. 

The bar exploded in shouts, punches, and kicks. And I found myself watching with the utmost sense of bliss, knowing that for the first time in forever, I was the one on the outside looking in.

(-)

“Hope we didn't scare ya from the pub forever,” Connor murmured as the twins stumbled behind me, both bruised and a little bloodied. I took the lead, nearly skipping the entire way.

“You're kidding me, right?!” I exclaimed, almost giggling at his words. I turned and faced the two while trying to catch my breath. “That was...That was...awesome! The way you guys just – BAM!” I imitated a punch Murphy had thrown into a gut. “And Connor, when you took the bottle and – WHAPOW!” I swung my arm in the same way that he had when he smashed it into one of the Russian's chests. “Where did you learn all that?!” I asked through my heavy breathing. “You have to teach me...What are you looking at?”

I realized that the two had stopped walking and fixed their gazes on my face, each of them wearing their own expression of confusion and concern. “Did that happen back there?” Murphy asked, motioning his hand over his left eye. My heart plummeted into my stomach as I rushed to shield my face with my hair. 

“O-Oh, um, n-no,” I stammered as I turned my back to them. “I just live right over there. Thanks for walking me home, guys.”

“Ridley,” Connor urged. He approached me, his stride calm yet rushed. “What happened? You've got a black eye.”

“No-Nothing,” I squeaked, pulling from him as he tried to lace his fingers between my strands to get a better look. “I'm a real klutz. I trip over air all the ti--”

“RIDLEY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!”

I yelped in surprise and nearly jumped ten feet back from Connor. Trevor was coming at us fast. The twins stood side-by-side, blocking him from coming directly to me. “Who the fuck are you?” Murphy demanded to know. 

Trevor eyed Murphy as if he was a piece of trash. Compared to the twins, he seemed much lankier than usual. “None of your damned business who I am, asshole. Ridley, come on, you cheatin' bitch!” I started to try to defend myself by saying that I didn't cheat on him, but he cut me off before I could even get a word out. “I'm not tellin' you another goddamn time! Get the fuck over here _now!_ ”

Murphy and Connor inhaled to say something probably rude enough to piss Trevor off even more than he was, but I placed my hands on their shoulders gently. “Its fine,” I mumbled as I stepped between the two. “Thanks for walking me home.”


	5. Cold Coffee

_Now._

The four of us pass around my Styrofoam coffee cup from work in silence at first. Its the only clean cup I have, but the men in front of me don't make any comments about it. We sit around my living room, me on the couch with them on the floor. They all pretend that my house is spotless. None of them make eye contact with me because they know I'm much too busy studying them from head to toe. 

Connor looks so much older than I remember. The start of a scruffy beard surrounds his mouth. It catches little droplets of coffee until he hurries to wipe them away. Bags of exhaustion start beginning to droop below his eyes, but they only make him look like he's an important business man who never has time to go home and spend time with his kids. His hair sticks up in every which way and I can tell its been a while since he's washed it. 

Murphy looks older, as well, but not as much as his brother. A new scar rips away at his left cheek and for a split second, I imagine pressing my lips to that spot again. Speaking of lips, I focus on his probably a lot longer than I should. My neck, thighs, chest, and hands tingle with memories of his lips dancing about on them. His eyes, a perfect show of different shades of blue swirling together, lifts for a split second. When he sees me watching him, he tilts his head downward once more to stare into the black coffee in his hands. 

“Oh, uh, Ridley,” Connor starts. I fix my gaze on him. “This is our Mexican.” He motions his hand toward the much smaller man who had followed them in. 

He wears his facial hair in a way similar to Connor's, but his is more patchy and messy. His black hair is formed into a half-assed Mohawk. He seems either extremely intimidated by me or doesn't have any interest in being around me. Whatever it is, he pushes his mouth into a smile and nods in my direction. “Romeo,” he says, lifting a hand toward me. I ignore it and look back toward Connor. I'm trying my hardest to pretend Murphy isn't here. 

“What the fuck is going on?” I demand to know. “I saw the newspapers. You guys killed a priest?” 

“No, no, no,” Connor groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We would never, Ridley. You know that.”

“Someone's posin' as us,” Murphy chimes in. I drag my eyes to his face as he continues. “That's why we've come back. Can't have some stupid asshole wavin' his guns around, actin' like he us, especially when he's killin' men of God.”

A wave of disappointment hits me, but I should've known. Why in the world would Murphy ever come back for me? Its a dumb thought, no doubt, but I shake it off before I can start to feel too badly about it. “What do you want from me?” I snap at Murphy. I don't really mean to come off so harshly, but there's no denying how bitter I still am. 

“Just a place to crash for the night. We won't make a peep. We'll be gone 'fore you wake up. Promise.”

At first, I want to tell them to piss off. Why should I help them? Then, I remember every single thing they've ever done for me and I let out a heavy, defeated sigh. “Okay,” I reply as I stand. I take the empty cup from Romeo's hand and toss it into my pile of dishes in the sink. “But I swear to God, guys, one noise and I'm kicking your asses out.”

(-)

I can't sleep, not with the three men snoring on the other side of my apartment. I try to focus on Murphy's snores. Back then, I didn't mind the noise. I lulled me to sleep most nights, but now I can't even hear it. I toss and turn, pull my blankets high over my head, and try to block out the sounds. I know there's absolutely no way I'm going to fall asleep before my alarm goes off.

I'm still in disbelief, I think. It took me nearly five years to accept that the twins were gone and probably dead. In all honestly, I would've taken more beatings from Trevor than to go through all the pain of constantly wondering if they were still out there somewhere. Not knowing made me want to die. 

A soft knock at my door surprises me. I hesitate to move, but my door opens before I can decide if I want to talk or not. “Riddles?” Murphy whispers. I knew it was him. Who else would it have been?

“My name is Ridley,” I hiss from underneath the safety of my blanket. “I'm trying to sleep. Do you mind?”

I hear the door close, but I know getting rid of him won't be that easy. “I just need to talk to ya,” he tells me. “Just hear me out for five minutes, then you'll never have to hear from me again.”

My stomach twists and I want to start screaming. Never hear from him again? Wow, Murphy, what a gift. You're just so kind to think that's what I want. You must think that's what I want because you forced it on me eight years ago, huh? You're so incredibly selfless. A fucking saint. Instead, I say, “I don't give a shit about what you need, Murphy. Just leave me alone. I don't want anything to do with you.”

“Riddl--”

I sit upright in my bed and glare at his dark figure. I thank whatever God may exist for the darkness because I can feel my tears coming fast. “Are you deaf or something?” I struggle to ask. My voice feels scratchy and hard. “You fucking ruined me, Murphy. Do you realize how long it took to get over you, to finally come to terms that you were dead?” I'm crying now, but I'm past the point of caring. “How fucking dare you think that you can just show up on my doorstep and expect things from me! After leaving me without so much as a note? Are you kidding me?!”

Murphy takes a step toward me, but I won't let him. I grab my pillow and chuck it at him, hitting him squarely in the chest. “Okay, okay,” he breathes, holding up his palms toward me as he comes to a halt. “I can explain myself--”

“I don't want to hear it.” My voice is coming out as a low whimper. I begin to crave another whiskey sour as I shove my head back onto my bed and close my eyes tightly. I want him to leave, but at the same time, I'm scared that he will.

“Fine.” He sounds more than upset, but I try not to care. “We'll be gone by mornin'.”

My body trembles with my sobs as I hear Murphy leave. For the first time in years, I spend hours crying until there are no more tears left. I've always slept better after crying myself out.


	6. Freedom

_Then._

I missed the MacManus brothers terribly, but as day three dragged on of not seeing them at McGinty's again, I started to give up hope that they were even real to begin with. As I caked on another layer of cover up around my eye and pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail, I spied a cut I never noticed before on my chin. 

“Where did you come from?” I whispered, leaning closer to my bathroom mirror. Wincing when I ran my finger over it, I realized that it was still very fresh. “Oh, yeah, that's right.” The result of another one of Trevor's drunken tantrums. He had nicked me with a broken beer bottle the night before. It happened so often that the memories of it all began to mush together. 

Before Trevor had the chance to wake up, I grabbed for my purse and hurried to leave. If I didn't end up wasting time, I could make it to McGinty's and back before his alarm went off. As I closed the door to our apartment as quietly as I could, I checked my watch. A few minutes past ten. I had half an hour.

Nearly sprinting down the sidewalk, I ignored the catcalls and whistles from the people behind me. I didn't have time to turn around, try to stick up for myself, and then end up crying back to Trevor. I knew what he'd say. His voice sounded so clearly in my head that it felt like he was running right next to me. “Its your fault,” he would say. “You're the dumbass who went outside looking like a cheap whore.”

Not that I really looked like a cheap whore. It was just that Trevor hated when I wore skirts, even the most professional ones. 

“Aye, lassie, a l-little early t-to start dr-drinkin', don't ya th-think?” Doc questioned me as I nearly kicked the door to the pub in, breathing heavily and hair already a mess. “ _Fuck! Ass!_ ” 

“I'm not really here to drink,” I told him, smoothing out my hair against my head. “I was just curious about Murphy and Connor. Have you heard from them lately?”

Doc's eyes widened and he immediately began to fidget with a shot glass. He shoved a small towel inside and started to clean it with trembling hands. “N-No, hav-haven't seen the boys s-since St. Patty's Day. N-Not at all.” 

I pulled myself onto a stool and folded my hands atop the counter. Doc's movements as he bustled about seemed twitchy and haphazard. The other night, he seemed so natural and calm in his pub, but now it was the exact opposite. “I'm just worried,” I mumbled. “I just thought they would've shown up again after the other night.”

The old man looked pained; his face grew red and his breathing came out in short spurts of air. “Oh, da-damn it,” he hissed before slamming his hands on the counter just in front of me. I jolted back in surprise. “Th-The boys g-got in-into another sp-spat with the fucktards wh-who came to the bar the other n-night. _Fuck! Ass!_ ” He lowered his face closer to mine, eyeing the sleeping man in the corner who had been there since the night before. “An FBI ag-agent came b-by yes-yesterday lookin' for 'em.”

My heart felt like it had plummeted into my stomach. “FBI?” I repeated. “Why? It was just a bar fight.”

“Th-They killed 'em.”

I stared at Doc for what seemed like hours. All the while, my breakfast that had consisted of toast of coffee threatening to force its way back up through my mouth. Murphy and Connor had killed those Russians...I tried to picture the two smiling, drunken men who invited me to their gathering like I'd known them for years holding the Russian men at gunpoint. It was impossible. 

“Th-They've already go-gone to the police dep-department to def-defend their c-c-case,” Doc continued when the silence between us became too heavy. “Ha-Haven't seen 'em si-since.”

I ran a bruised hand over my face. What if they'd gotten themselves arrested? What if more of the Russians had found them? I knew it was stupid to be so concerned over a couple guys I had only just met and knew nothing about, but I considered them my only friends in this new city. Just for a few hours, they had taken me away from the harsh reality that was Trevor and shown me a world full of drunken laughter and hugs from strangers that felt more loving than anything I'd experienced in a long time. 

“How early is too early to start drinking?” I asked, keeping my head buried in my hands. I didn't want to look at Doc's face, at his concerned expression. I knew it would only make me feel worse. 

Something cold touched my arm. I glanced down to see a whiskey sour. “O-On the house,” Doc said before promptly turning his head and spewing so loudly that it woke the man in the corner, “ _Fuck! Ass!_ ”

(-)

I stumbled down the sidewalk, holding onto the building next to me for support. Spending all day at McGinty's seemed like such a good idea at the time, but the realization that I had to come home to the wrath of Trevor struck fear into me. Not even the drunken courage I tried to muster was enough to cast the feeling away.

Dusk settled over Boston beautifully; the sky glowed with a mixture of purple and orange, the city seemed so much quieter than usual, and even cars filled the streets less frequently. Of course, I wasn't sure about any of this – things seemed to be more favorable when I was drunk, I soon learned. Even my body felt like I was made of titanium. For a split second, I considered punching a hole in the building I leaned on, but a tiny voice inside of me told me that would was a terrible idea. 

“Oh, God, please don't do this,” a horrified moan echoed from a nearby alleyway. I stopped in my tracks before rushing in the direction. I peeked around the corner of the building to see three bodies. One was knelt on the cold ground and the other two stood behind him, a gun in each of their hand. “Please, I don't deserve this,” the kneeling man pleaded. 

“And Shepherds we shall be for Thee, my lord, for Thee,” the standing men chanted simultaneously. I squinted in the darkening air to get a better view of them. Their faces had been covered with black ski masks. “Power hath descended forth from Thy hand. Our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. So we shall flow a river to Thee and teeming with souls shall it ever be.”

I focused on the man in front of them. Something about him seemed so familiar. I couldn't tell what color his hair was, but it was styled in a way I knew much too well. 

“ _In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti._ ”

“Trevor,” my mouth formed just as twin gunshots sounded. Trevor's body lurched forward, but the men caught him by the arms before he hit the ground. They turned him onto his back and placed something over his eyes before running toward me.

I gasped in fear and pressed myself hard against the building, as if trying to blend in so they wouldn't see me. Unfortunately, one of them stopped just as they passed, turned to look at me, and said, “You're safe now, lass. Bastard ain't gonna touch ya ever again.” Then, they were gone, running down the street like a couple of idiots. 

I approached Trevor's body slowly, my own body trembling like an earthquake was surging through me. The two men had placed pennies over his blasted out eyes and positioned his arms to cross over his chest. Slowly, I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed 9-1-1. “Hello?” I whispered into the phone. “Yes, I n-need the Boston Police right away...There's been a m-murder.” Then, a short pause. “No, I didn't see who did it.”

(-)

Because I was the one to “find” Trevor's body, because I was intoxicated, and because I was his girlfriend, I was taken into the station for questioning immediately. I sat in a small room with a man who looked as drunk as I was and half crazed. After introducing himself as Agent Smecker, he nudged a box of doughnuts my way.

“How do you take your coffee?” he asked politely. 

“Black,” I answered, reaching for a chocolate doughnut. The entire ride to the police station, I tried my hardest to force some tears out for the fact that my boyfriend had just been murdered in front of my own eyes. I couldn't. I wasn't sad or angry or even scared, not anymore. I was relieved, which is a horrible way to feel after something like this happens, but I truly was. It meant no more black eyes, no more cuts on my face, no more names being spat at me. I was free. 

Smecker nodded to a lanky looking man standing behind him. Without conversation between the two, the man left the room to fetch my coffee. Then, Smecker turned to me with a wide grin. “I'll have to record this,” he informed me. “I'll need you to answer to the best of your knowledge. You understand, right?”

“Yes,” I muttered before stuffing a bite of doughnut into my mouth. I hadn't realized just how hungry I was. 

Between us sat a hefty machine. Smecker pressed the button with a red circle on it. “Please state your entire name and age,” he told me, loud enough that the machine would pick up on it. 

I swallowed before leaning in and saying, “Ridley Elandria Gillespie. Twenty-one.”

“That's a unique name,” Smecker commented, raising his eyebrows. “Very pretty.”

“Thank you,” I replied sheepishly as I wondered if this was part of the investigation. “It was my grandmother's name.”

“Now, how did you find the man who was murdered in the alleyway?”

“I-I was walking home from the bar,” I told him, picking my words very carefully. “Normally I look in alleys when I pass them just in case there are people waiting in there to attack me. I did the same here and saw a body. When I got close enough, I realized it was Trevor's.”

“And how did you know Trevor?”

“He was my boyfriend.”

“You don't seem very shaken up over his murder.”

I fell silent for a moment, watching Smecker's eager eyes study my face. I know he was waiting for me to confess to killing Trevor. “I'm not,” I finally said, rubbing the cover up from my eye. Although the black eye wasn't as prominent as it was when I met the brothers, my skin was still puffy and tinted with a small amount of purple. I lifted my sleeves, revealing the bruises and cuts. “He was abusive.”

Smecker sat back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his mouth before pressing the record button on the machine again. “Thank you for your time, Miss Gillespie,” he said, a hint of anger in his voice. The lanky man finally returned with my coffee. He looked toward Smecker in confusion when he stood from his chair. “We're done here. Greenly, see that she gets home safe.”


	7. Hazy Confessions

_Now._

I'm so groggy and sick to my stomach when my alarm goes off that I consider calling into work for a moment. I'm sure that I dreamt about Murphy again, that he came into my bedroom and tried to explain himself to me. After moments of staring at my ceiling and thinking back on it, I realize that it wasn't a dream at all and my stomach lurches painfully. 

Stepping from my bed, I try to keep myself together. My face is red and puffy from the hours I spent crying into my pillow and my body feels like I'd been run over by a semi. I pull the door to my bedroom open and my mouth nearly crashes to the floor. The entire place is spotless; the dishes are washed and put away into the cabinets, all the laundry is piled into a basket that I'd bought and used only once before, and all the beer bottles are gone. Even my trashcan is empty. As I stalk into the kitchen, I spy a yellow sticky note on the fridge. 

“Ridley, we hope you don't mind,” the note reads, “but we did.” Its Connor's horrid handwriting. I can tell by the way he dots his i's with x's. 

“Oh my God,” I whisper to myself, horror striking through me. “They touched my bras.”

(-)

After probably one of the longest work days of my life, I find myself at McGinty's. What's new, right? Doc greets me with a pleasant smile, a familiar (but loving), “ _Fuck! Ass!_ ” and a delicious whiskey sour. I take a small sip and grab for a broom stashed away in the corner. Its a Tuesday night and the pub is nearly empty with the exception of a few men who have nothing waiting for them back home but a bottle of rum and a nasty hangover in the morning.

“You knew,” I say as I begin to sweep the wooden floors. “How did you know they were coming back?” I'm far from angry; I'm more curious than anything. 

“Ra-Ran into 'em, didja?” the old man responds, running a rag in a water-streaked glass. “I ha-had a fe-feelin' th-that they were c-comin'. Wo-Words from God.” He raises a stumpy finger in the air, pointing upward, and wags it side to side. 

Trying to get answers from him is obviously out of the question, especially when he brings up religion, so instead of pressing the matter any further, I focus on my sweeping. I'd never been much of a believer myself, even when I met the MacManus brothers. God was just a word to me, whereas they swore away their lives to whatever higher power they placed their faith in. 

A knock at the back door breaks me from my thoughts. Doc hobbles over, cane securely in his hand, and opens it. His figure blocks whoever it is, but when I hear the voices, I throw my head back in a groan. “You've got to me shitting me,” I hiss to myself.

“J-Jesus, Mary, and Jo-Joseph!” Doc exclaims as the three follow him in. “I-I saw the n-news ch-channel! A-Are you boys al-all right?” Words from God, my ass.

Connor and Murphy stride in like they own the place, much like they used to, as I try to ignore them and tend to the sweeping. “What's this?” Connor says loudly, trying to get my attention. “Got a new waitress, have you, Fuck-Ass?”

I turn my back to the group and throw up a middle finger. “Piss off, Connor.”

“Rid-Ridley helps m-me cl-clean the bar m-most days,” Doc explains, his voice full of gratitude. “Ca-Can't do much on my o-own anymore.”

“What an angel,” Murphy chimes in. 

My grip on the broom becomes so tight that I expect the wood to split at any second. “Go to hell, Murphy.” The four men fall into their own conversation that I make it a point to stay out of. The only time I get involved is when Murphy introduces Romeo as “our Mexican” yet again. “His name is Romeo!” I shout in annoyance. 

After a round of shots, Doc urges the three into the speakeasy that he mentioned to me before. “Rid-Ridley! Put d-down the da-damn br-broom and come w-with us!” the bartender demands. If I didn't have so much respect for the guy, I would tell him no, but that isn't the case, so I sigh in defeat and trudge along behind the group. 

The speakeasy is a cold, dusty, and sour-smelling room filled with broken chairs, boxes full of junk, and a pool table that hasn't been touched in years. As I close the door behind me, Doc explains what the room was used for back before anyone except him was even a glimmer in our father's eyes. The men, each with a beer in their hands, look absolutely enthralled by the place. I, however, rush to the corner and grab for the empty potato chip bags and soda cans from one of the damaged tables. 

“Lo-Looks like th-the pl-lace has be-been broken into,” Doc says, his eyes narrowing at me, “ _ag-again._ ”

Instead of defending my case, I give a small shrug. “I like it up here.”

Romeo is the most excited of all three of them, I gather when I turn back to them. He walks around, wide-eyed and mouth open, constantly talking about this place being their secret hideout. Its cute, really, the way his innocent side pops out over the most simplest of things. For a moment, I consider joining in with this childish ideas, but of course, Connor says something to completely ruin the mood.

“What are ya, fuckin' five-years-old?” he teases with a short laugh. 

“You know, Rome,” Murphy adds, toying with a pool cue, “we've got sticks and blankets.” He points the cue toward Romeo. “Ya can make yourself a fort.” 

I grimace at the two, but before I can say anything in Romeo's court, he rolls his eyes and replies, “Fuck the both of ya, man. This is fuckin' sweet! We even got a pinball machine, man!”

The Simpsons edition pinball machine become the source of entertainment for Romeo and Murphy for the next ten minutes while Doc excuses himself to fetch alcohol and pub food. Not even the game itself – just trying to turn it on. They slam their bodies against it, yell at it, and even chuck a beer bottle at it. I watch as the glass spews all over the floor, folding my arms tight over my chest. 

“Aw, c'mon, Ridley,” Connor breathes in my ear as he slinks an arm across my shoulders. “Lighten up. I know you fuckin' hate our guts, but just drop it for one night, yeah?” He slips his hand between my arms and forces me to uncurl them. Then, he presses his half-finished beer into my palm and joins his brother and Romeo on trying to turn on the pinball machine. 

I take a quick swig of the beer. “You have to plug it in,” I point out. The three of them stop for a moment, glance at each other, and Murphy reaches behind the machine to follow my instructions. The thing lights up and plays the familiar opening tune of The Simpsons show. Murphy's face glows as he looks back at me, probably imagining the same thing I am: early mornings lazing around my apartment in either our underwear or in the nude, watching reruns of the dumb show. His moment of nostalgia is cut short, as is mine, when Doc returns with more booze than legally allowed in one night.

(-)

I soon lose count of how many shots I try to match with Romeo. He's a much more experienced drinker than I am, which is horrifically surprising. Before I know it, my world is swirling and I'm so happy that I can't feel my anger toward Murphy anymore. In fact, I find myself constantly near him. This drunken me, while not exactly a new persona, but one that has been shoved deep down in the dark box of myself, seems to satisfy Connor. He doesn't look at me like I need to take out the stick shoved up my ass. Instead, he smiles more often than I can remember.

The four men constantly yell at each other, but not about anything bad. Just a lot of “I FUCKIN' LOVE YOU, MAN” and “YOU'RE FUCKIN' AMAZIN', YA KNOW THAT?!” They point their fingers so close to each other's faces that Murphy tries to bite his brother's off. Drinks are spilled, food is dropped, bodies occasionally slink to the floor, and somehow I'm content with standing in the middle of this hurricane.

“What're ya doin'?” Murphy questions me as I take the cigarette from his mouth. Connor and Romeo are screaming at the pinball machine again while Doc is lining up another round of shots. “Ya hate cigarettes.”

“I know,” I slur, leaning against the pool table. I examine the horrid thing between my fingers before glancing up at him, hazy and lost. “I remember...I remember the first time I tasted one of these. I didn't even smoke the fuckin' thing. I've never smoked a fuckin' cigarette in my life, but I know what they taste like.”

An entertained smirk plays on his lips as he takes a gulp of his beer. “You're ramblin', Riddles. Ya gonna hit it or not?”

I try to glare at him, but I'm sure I look like some coked-up raccoon or something because Murphy laughs. And not the kind of laugh that he forces – no, its the kind that used to make my heart flip-flop in my chest. Although his voice is scarred with cigarettes and booze, he sounds so melodic that I almost expect him to start singing. “Will you shut up for three seconds, Murph?” I ask him before looking back toward the cigarette as if its talking to me. “The first time I ever tasted a cigarette was when I kissed you.” 

I bring the cigarette to my lips, but stop just before I inhale. What am I doing? Talking to Murphy like he's a friend, touching a cigarette, looking at this guy like he's still the greatest thing that's ever happened to me? What am I, fucking insane? I know I'm going to regret every single part of this in the morning, but I continue anyway. 

“Why did you leave me, Murphy?” I suddenly ask, handing him back his cigarette. My heart, all at once, feels like its breaking all over again.

Murphy takes it from me and immediately puts it out against the wood of the pool table. “I didn't want to,” he mumbles. He stands next to me, leaning on the table just as I am. “I was against it at first. Thought it was the worst fuckin' idea Connor's ever come up with in that stupid brain of his. Then...he started to say shit that made sense. 'We can't get Ridley involved anymore,' his dumbass said. 'She's gonna die because of us.' The more he said it, the more scared I got.”

I watch him from the corner of my eye, not wanting to give him the pleasure of knowing that I'm actually paying attention to what he's saying. In reality, I'm hanging onto every word that drips from his mouth. His lips tremble, which I learned long ago only happens when he's truly upset about something, and his head slowly shakes from side to side. 

“I wanted to write at least a million times, but I knew my shit would be tracked. I couldn't risk anyone tyin' my name to yaH,” Murphy continues after running a hand over his face. “Hurt like a bitch, but I didn't want you in any more danger.”

At first, I don't know what to say. I finally spew the only thing that comes to my mind, refusing to turn my head toward him. “I loved you,” I say as if this is a secret. 

“I loved you too,” Murphy replies, finishing the rest of his beer in one swig. “Ya think I ever stopped, Riddles? Fuck that. I still love you.”

After that, I don't remember anything else of the night.


	8. Gladiolus

_Then._

Three days after Trevor's murder, two spectacular things happened. One: I received my first call back for a job interview at a local coffee house and two: the MacManus brothers showed up at my door, both of them wearing an identical sly grin on their faces. Connor kept his hands shoved deep down into his pockets while Murphy hid his behind his back. When I answered my door, my heart nearly exploded from my chest at the sight of them, but I tried to play it cool and collected. 

“We, uh, heard the unfortunate news,” Murphy mumbled, obviously trying to force some concern into his voice, “about your boyfriend.”

“Our condolences,” Connor added with a small nod. “Such a tragedy. How're ya holdin' up, lass?”

“I'm okay,” I replied slowly, eyeing their hidden hands. “This can't be the only reason why you two came here, not after avoiding me for almost a week.”

The both of them looked sincerely hurt at my words, causing a sharp pain of guilt through me. “Avoid ya?” Murphy repeated. “We would never. We've just been a tad jammed.”

I placed my hands on my hips, staring at them disbelievingly. Then, after sighing in defeat, I pushed my door open the rest of the way and waved my hand inward. “Well, you guys might as well come in and make yourself comfy,” I said. “I'm just cleaning up a bit before this interview and trying not to throw up from being so nervous.”

They shyly ambled their way into my messy apartment, filled with boxed that were never unpacked from the move. Most of them belonged to Trevor and I was still deciding what to do with them all. Against the wall next to the door sat a dirty, ripped couch that I'd bought for fifty dollars at some old woman's garage sale just before we left California. Connor wasted no time plopping himself down on it while Murphy glanced around at my bare walls nervously. 

“No pictures?” he asked. 

I shook my head and twisted the blinds open, allowing the morning sun to shine into the drab place. “Not yet,” I answered. “I don't really have much money for anything ye – Hey, what gives?” I pointed toward a beautiful bouquet of white flowers that Murphy had been hiding behind his back this entire time. He finally revealed them and I watched as another set of grins grew on the brother's faces. 

“They're called Gladiolus,” Connor informed me. He lifted a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. In a heavy – and quite terrible – Boston accent, he mocked the owner of the flower shop down the street that I'd peered into so many times before, “These flowahs represent a strowng chahrahcta.”

I pursed my lips to fight back a fit of giggles as I took the bouquet from Murphy. For a split second, my fingers accidentally grazed his skin and it felt like electricity had surged through me. He shook his head at his brother, either not noticing our fingers or trying to ignore it altogether. “Pay no mind the pathetic bastard,” he told me under his breath. Then louder, he clarified, “We got 'em for ya 'cause, well, we think that yer a strong person for puttin' up with that asshole for so long.”

The smile broke through then. “Thank you,” I said, pressing my nose toward a petal to inhale the scent. “Both of you, thank you.”

Connor's response was a short snore. Murphy and I both glanced at him at his glory – one leg stretched on the cushions while the other stretched toward the floor, head hanging backward, and mouth wide open. The conscious twin shook his head at his brother before turning back to me. “He can fall asleep just 'bout anywhere,” he told me. “Lucky dosser.” 

I rummaged through box after box, searching for anything to put the flowers in. I could've sworn that I'd stolen my mother's old, chipped vase just before I left. She had so many of the ugly things cluttering the garage back home that I was positive she wouldn't notice if one went missing. Finally, after four boxes, my hands felt at the yellow ceramic. I filled it with water from the sink and very gently placed the flowers inside, all the while trying not to make too much noise. I didn't want to wake Connor up, especially if he was so tired that he passed out within minutes of sitting down. 

“I don't have much for a table yet,” I explained to Murphy as I placed the vase on top of one of the boxes. 

“Don't have much for anythin' yet, do ya?” he replied, taking another speculating glance around the room. “Apologies, I didn't mean th—”

“Its okay,” I interrupted. I opened the glass of the window to allow more fresh air into the apartment for the flowers. My eyes settled on a couple down below that seemed to be arguing over a sandwich or something. I couldn't quite hear their words over the flow of traffic, but from the way that the man pushed the woman back from him and how she flung her arms up in defeat, I could tell that they weren't happy with each other. “Those men who killed Trevor...I-I watched it happen, Murphy.”

Turning to face him, I caught Murphy staring at the back of my head. I would've thought he would be watching his brother sleep or examining the apartment some more, but I seemed to be his main focus. “Yeah?” he replied. From his tone, he seemed less than surprised. 

I nodded slowly and started to head toward my bathroom to finish getting ready for my interview. I motioned for him to follow me as I continued to talk. “One of them stopped and told me I'd be safe now,” I admitted, staring at myself in the mirror as I pulled my hair into a tight bun. Murphy leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. “What do you think they meant by that? I mean, sure, I'm safe from Trevor, but what if I end up with someone worse than him? Or get hit by a bus?”

Murphy let out a small, hushed chuckle as his eyes locked onto mine through the mirror. “Maybe they just meant that...that you've got a coupla perfect angels watchin' over ya.”

“Maybe,” I mumbled, leaning forward to put the last of my cover up over a slowly healing cut. “But how did they know what he did? It couldn't have been a coincidence.” I shook my head and stared glanced down at the container in my hands that were no longer bruised. “Sorry, Murph. I know you don't have the answers. Either way, it doesn't matter what they meant or how they knew. If I ever get the chance to talk to them, I'll be sure to thank them personally. Y-You don't mind if I call you Murph, r-right? I mean, its shorter tha--”

“Ridley.”

I turned my head to look at him without the mirror. A huge, dazzling smile was planted on his face and a strange sort of glint I'd only seen once before when he was drunk lit in his eyes “Ya look beautiful,” he said, not a hint of bashfulness in his voice. “You're goin' to get this job. And I don't mind if ya call me Murph.”

Every ounce of anxiety that had built up inside me immediately disappeared.

(-)

“So, Miss...Gillespie, have you had any experience in customer service before?”

I stared into the beady black eyes of the woman sitting in front of me, her legs crossed over each other neatly and a clipboard held securely in her hands. Her bleached blonde hair flowed down her back in steady waves. Her nails were obviously fake; they were unnervingly long and curled at the end, designed with an ugly black-and-white zebra pattern that threw her entire air of professionalism off. Her lips, stained with red lipstick, pulled together into somewhat of a pout as she waited for my answer. Just above her left breast, she wore a name tag that said “Store Manager: Tracey.” Little did I know that this same woman would haunt me for the next eight years. 

I was so intimidated by Tracey that I found it hard to speak. Dead-set on telling her that I did have experience, though a lie, my mouth couldn't form the words. Suddenly, something caught my eye over her shoulder and on the other side of the gigantic window of the coffee house. Murphy and Connor had followed me to my interview, saying they were just going to have a few smokes while they waited for me. Stubborn and completely fixed on the idea that I would get the job, Murphy had insisted on treating me to a round of beer at McGinty's after the interview. Now, he was watching me through the window, picking up on how uncomfortable I was. 

“Breathe,” he mouthed, cigarette smoke spewing from his nose. “Just breathe.”

So, I did. I inhaled slowly and exhaled even more slowly before turning back to Tracey. Luckily, she didn't catch my distracted eye waver. “Yes, I have,” I told her confidently. As I continued to speak, it felt as if a fire had lit inside me that never existed before. I couldn't remember the last time I felt so big and important while talking to someone who held part of my future in their hands. Maybe it was because I no longer had Trevor breathing down my neck, watching my every move, and controlling my every word. 

Or, maybe it was because I finally had someone who believed in me.

(-)

I decided not to go to McGinty's after all. Instead, I found myself at home with a cup of coffee in my hand, watching the three men in front of me play some stupid drinking game. Murphy, Connor, and Rocco (who randomly bumped into us just as I was leaving the coffee house) sat around in a circle on my floor while I sat on my couch, speaking too quickly for me to keep up with and then punching each other hard on the arms. It didn't make any sense to me, but they laughed and that was all that mattered.

“Hey, hey, shh! Shush up for a second,” I told them in a hurry, reaching over for the remote to my TV. I turned up the volume and sat up straight to peer over their heads at the woman on the news channel. 

Underneath her face, Sally McBride's name scanned across the screen. A rather pretty woman, the news reporter stared into the camera in front of her. I swore it felt like she was talking directly to me. “...this marks the fifth murder in only three days. Although the case of Trevor Hennings has been closed, more are only opening up seemingly within only a few hours of each other.” She began to list off names of people who had been killed very recently, but Connor turned off the TV before she could finish. 

“Buncha scumbags,” he muttered under his breath as he picked up his nearly empty beer bottle. “Good riddance, I say.”

“Hear, hear,” Murphy responded, clanking his own beer against his brother's. 

I downed the remainder of my coffee before shaking my head. “So, we've got some psychopath on the loose, killing everyone who seems like a scumbag?” I questioned. “What does that mean for us then? What even defines a scumbag? Someone who cusses a lot or...or...doesn't go to church every Sunday?” The more I talked, the higher and more demanding my voice became until suddenly, I was nearly shouting. 

It wasn't that I was angry about all the killings. It was that someone was taking it upon themselves to get involved with something that didn't concern them. In my opinion, things like that should've been left to the police to handle, not some unknown person, or persons. 

“Y'know,” Rocco mumbled, half-drunk, “she's got a point. I mean, I'm sure as fuck in no position to talk, but I mean...y'know.”

Paying no attention to him, Murphy stared at me as if I was some sort of alien. “Those men were criminals,” he hissed, pointing behind himself toward the TV. “Includin' yer damn boyfriend that she mentioned. Did ya already forget 'bout 'im? Those men were like 'im. Wife-beaters, pimps, murderers themselves.”

Before I knew it, the two of us were bickering back and forth, one of us drunk and the other hyped up on caffeine. While we yelled and rolled our eyes at each other, Connor and Rocco made sure to stay far from the argument. They both cracked open another bottle of beer just as my phone began to vibrate on the counter. 

“I'm not fucking done with your ass, Murphy!” I hollered as I headed for my phone. The number was unknown, which made me a little wary, but I answered it anyway. “Hello?” I asked, my voice completely changing into something as sweet as candy. 

It only took a few minutes of conversation to switch around my mood. Connor and Murphy both watched me with curious eyes while Rocco tossed back one more beer before letting out a loud and disgusting belch. I closed my phone, set it back on the counter, and tried so hard to hide my smile. I failed. 

“I got the job,” I said in disbelief. Then, my voice exploded at the same time that my stomach filled with butterflies. “I GOT THE JOB!” 

As our prior argument was forgotten, Murphy was the first to lift me from the ground in a tight embrace. “What did I tell ya?!” he exclaimed, grinning up at me as I snaked my arms around his neck. 

From the couch, Connor faked a retching noise. “Why don't ya two get on with it and kiss already?” he joked. 

Murphy started to glare at his brother, but I, being so ecstatic and elevated that I couldn't think my actions through, did as Connor said. I leaned downward and pressed my lips hard against Murphy's. Surprise racked through me, not at the fact that I did it to begin with, but that he didn't pull away or push me off. Instead, he quickly lowered me until my feet hit the ground and took my face in his hands, his mouth forming around mine better than Trevor's ever had. 

He tasted like cigarettes and beer, which normally would've grossed me out. I never kissed Trevor for hours after he smoked because I hated the smell, so I assumed I would hate the way it would linger on my lips as well. This had rewarded me with a few slaps to the face, but I figured it was worth it. The taste of Murphy's mouth, however, was something that left me craving more. It was like trying chocolate for the very first time and then constantly thinking on it for hours afterward. When he pulled away after a few moments, I found myself pressing back into him for more -- I couldn't get enough.

“I was only kiddin', but whatever works, I guess,” Connor remarked. He didn't sound surprised; rather, he seemed like he had just been waiting for something like this to happen.


	9. Faltering Promises

_Now._

“No, no, no. Absolutely not. Are you idiots out of your fucking minds?!” 

I pace back and forth in front of the three detectives sitting on my couch. My eyes flick toward the digital clock sitting on my TV. Nearly midnight and these jerks decide to visit me for the first time in almost a year. Greenly runs a hand over his face and shakes his head. Duffy and Dolly are making it more an obvious that coming to me was a terrible idea; their legs bounce with nervousness and Duffy is sweating an ocean from his armpits. I, on the other hand, am so jumbled that I can't even think straight. 

“Ridley, for God's sake, just listen to us,” Dolly pleads through his fingers. “They are going to come after you to get to the boys. Why can't you understand that?”

I stop pacing and face the trio, placing my hands tightly on my hips. “Well, why the fuck would some mafia assholes coming looking for me, hm?” I demand to know, my head tilting to the side. “My name is not tied to them in any way. We made sure of that eight years ago.”

“Yakavetta is callin' 'em out -- killin' people, makin' it look like the boys are doin' it,” Greenly explains. “It makes sense that he's gonna come after ya: one of the Saint's ex-girlf--” 

I hold a finger toward his face as the other two shake their heads at their partner. “You shut your damn mouth,” I hiss. “That word does not get brought up, ever.”

Greenly rolls his eyes, knowing that in doing so, he's just building my rage. “Whatever. Anyway, they're usin' their best men to track down anyone they can who has any relation to 'em, or may seem like it. They'll find ya eventually.” 

“We're just lookin' out for you,” Duffy adds, swirling the cup of coffee I'd given him when they first shuffled into my apartment. The first thing they did was compliment on the cleanliness of the place. “Do ya have anywhere else you can stay for the next month or two? We don't want ya gettin' kidnapped again.” 

They explode in a round of laughter. I join in, forcing out the most believable giggle I can muster, as I make my way to my kitchen. I grab for my small, concealed handgun behind the microwave and round the corner, pointing it toward them. “Real fuckin' funny, guys!” I shout, slapping the cup from Duffy's hand with the butt of the gun. It shatters against the nearby wall and a streak of brown liquid trickles down. “Now get the fuck out or I'll put bullets up your asses!”

(-)

“Can I stay with you guys?”

Murphy and Connor exchange a more than confused glance as they stand in the doorway of the speakeasy. To them, I can only imagine how dumb I look. After the quick visit from my detective friends, their words eventually ate away at me until I realized that the last thing I wanted was to get kidnapped...again. So, I figured the safest place was with the twins and Romeo. Even if I ran away to somewhere else, Yakavetta would find me, just like his father did before. So, here I am, standing on the tiny flight of stairs with nothing put a backpack full of clothes and toiletries. Oh, and a loaded Beretta Px4 Storm.

“Aye,” the twins respond simultaneously, opening the door wider for me. As I scurry in, I take a quick glance around the place. Its almost unrecognizable. 

Sometime during the last two days, the boys had decorated the entire place to their liking. The Irish and Mexican flags (which look nearly the same) hang on opposite ends of the room, signifying which half belongs to the twins and which belongs to Romeo. Empty beer bottles and cigarette packs scatter the pool table, which seems to be used more for an actual table than a recreational toy. Two beds settle underneath the Irish flag and one – fully equip with a sleeping Romeo – sits beneath the Mexican flag. Stashed away in the corner are black bags that the twins must've brought back with them from Ireland. Sitting upon the windowsill is an ashtray loaded with cigarette butts. How could three men smoke so much in such a short amount of time?

“This is only temporary,” I inform them before they have a chance to ask any questions. I shove beer cans from a circular table so I have a place for my backpack. The sound of the clutter bouncing on the concrete floor rattles Romeo awake. “Its come to my attention that I may be in danger because of you two _again_.” 

I turn to glance at the twins. They're both giving me an incredulous stare, their arms folded over their chests. Romeo moans something in Spanish, flips his pillow onto the other side, and falls back to sleep in an instant. His loud, obnoxious snoring fills in the awkward silence between the boys and myself. Finally, Connor speaks up. “Y'know, lass, yer the one who got yerself into a bit of a bad spot the last time.”

I glare at him through my window of hair as I fish into my backpack. “I was trying to help,” I murmur, pulling out a shirt I'd found when I was packing my things. “I never got a thank you for that, by the way. Here, Murph. This belongs to you.” I toss the shirt his direction and watch him clumsily catch it. “You guys won't even know I'm here. I work weekdays and I go out as much as possible during the weekends.”

“How long do ya plan on stayin' here?” Murphy questions, tossing the shirt onto what I assume is his bed. Its the only one that isn't made. My eyes trace his figure as he reaches for an unopened can of beer among the empty ones, cracks it open, but doesn't take a sip of it yet. This is one of his defense mechanisms – reaching for either a beer or a cigarette when he feels uncomfortable, but not actually drinking or smoking it. 

I toss my backpack into the corner near Romeo's bed. He mumbles something about “faggoty guns” and stirs for a moment. “Oh, I don't know,” I reply, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “A couple days, maybe a week or two.” The longer I speak, the more my voice becomes a hushed whisper. “Or a month.”

Murphy finally brings the can to his lips while his brother throws a shit fit. “A month?!” Connor hollers. Romeo sits up and yells for him to be quiet, but the Irishman refuses to listen to him. He grabs an empty can and hurls it at Romeo's head. “Shut the fuck up, ya dirty spic!”

“Maybe,” I respond. I clear my throat awkwardly and move toward the window. “I don't really have anyone else I can stay with,” I explain as I grab the ashtray and empty its contents into a plastic shopping bag. I move around the room like mist, gathering all the trash I can fit. “And, seeing as I let you guys sleep over at my place, I figure you owe me the same.” 

I spend the next hour taking multiple trips to the dumpster behind McGinty's to throw away bag after bag of trash. All the while, the twins ask me several times if there's anything they can do to help, but I dismiss them with a wave of my hand or a shake of my head. To be honest, anxiety is building inside me like a volcano rearing to erupt at any second and I don't want to admit this to them. Constantly moving, I find, is the only way to make me feel even the tiniest bit better. 

Before I know it, Connor has retreated to his bed after giving his brother a nod of acknowledgment. Murphy returns the motion before giving me a quick glance over. Long ago, their unspoken language used to annoy the ever living crap out of me. They always seemed to know what the other was thinking and I was always left in the dark. Now, I could give a shit less. As I return from my last trip to the dumpster, I find both Connor and Romeo sprawled out on their respected beds. Murphy is wide awake, leaning against the windowsill with a cigarette hanging from his lips. The smoke lingers around his mouth before floating out into the night through the small opening between the window and the red brick of the building. 

Trying to be as quiet as possible, I tiptoe to my backpack and rummage through it. As my fingers graze my hairbrush, I pull my hair loose from the frayed hair tie that has been holding it in place for the past two days. I figure if I wake up on time tomorrow, I can hurry home to take a quick shower before work. I glide the brush through my hair and take a quick sideways glance at Murphy. He hasn't noticed that I'm here yet; his eyes are fixed on something flashing on and off below. The light creates a shadow on his features, making him look so much more older than he really is. 

For a moment, I can't take my eyes off him. Even though all the sleepless, tear-filled nights that he caused me, he still looks so handsome and perfect in every single way. My gaze trails down to his hand as it grabs for the cigarette. The “AEQUITAS” tattoo is still so prominent that I assume he must've touched it up recently. My own tattoo, a small four-leaf clover on my left forearm, gives off a soft tingling sensation as I reminisce back on all the times I traced the art carved onto his skin with my fingertips – both tattoos and scars alike. 

“Y'know, yer bein' a bit creepy,” Murphy murmurs in a low tone. I realize that the entire time I had been staring at his tattoo, his eyes had been locked on me. “Ya can take a picture with yer phone if ya want. Been thinkin' of takin' up modelin' soon,” he jokes. 

Suddenly, I feel so ashamed that I can't make eye-contact with him. I turn my head and pretend to fish through my backpack for something else, thinking back on the final words he left me with only two days before. _“Fuck that. I still love you.”_ I can't tell you why my brain decided to bring this little snippet of memory up. Hell, I was so drunk that I can't even remember the conversation leading up to that. 

“You guys wouldn't happen to have a spare bed, would you?” I ask, knowing full well what the answer is. I can't stand the silence filling the space between us. 

“Nah,” Murphy replies. He snuffs out the remainder of his cigarette in the ashtray before closing the window. “Ya can have my bed. I'm used to sleepin' on the floor. Back in Ireland, Da woul--”

“I don't care,” I snap as I stand from my backpack. “I don't care about Ireland or how great it was for you. I don't want to hear any of it.” I don't refuse his offer for the bed. In fact, I'm on it before I even finish talking. 

_“I still love you.”_

I yank the blankets over my head and bury my face into Murphy's pillow, shoving my phone underneath it at the same time. It smells so much like him that I want to chuck it across the room. Unfortunately, this is the only free pillow and I don't want to give it up. I hear him sigh and a quiet shuffling on the left side of the bed. Just barely, I lift the edge of the blanket and peek out at him. Murphy had grabbed my backpack to use as a pillow and the shirt I threw at him earlier as a blanket. The guilt inside me becomes too heavy to bear and I end up pushing some of my blanket onto him. 

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

_“I still love you.”_

“Riddles?”

“Yeah?”

“Why'd ya come here?”

I know that Murphy knows that I was full of shit when I said I had nowhere else to go. Any one of the detectives would've taken me in for the time being. Tracey would've acted like I would be a burden, but she would let me stay in her guestroom. Even Shauna would've made room for me in her tiny studio apartment. I had so many places to go, and yet I close to run back to Murphy's side, just like I always did. 

“Because,” I say, watching the moonlight seep in through the window, “I figured if Yakavetta found me here, you'd protect me.” I feel so stupid for admitting that. In a way, I see it as a point for Murphy and a point taken away from me. 

Murphy stirs below me, shifting my share of the blanket in the process. “Always,” he whispers. “I'll always protect ya, Riddles. That's why I had to leave Boston. That's why I had to leave ya.”

_“I still love you.”_

My stomach is twisting into knots. When I was just starting to accept that Murphy was gone forever, I promised myself that on the one in a million chance that I would see him again, I would pretend that I didn't know him, that he was just another stranger on the streets. That promise is beginning to falter, though. How do you pretend not the know the one person you'd ever truly given your heart to, you'd ever not felt guilty about sleeping with, and who you imagined growing old with? Now, I know there's no way to do that. Not when I'd built up my future around him and had it torn down to pieces when he left. 

“You didn't have to,” I say after a painfully long moment of silence. “I could've held my own.”

“I realize that now.” Murphy's voice is heavy with exhaustion and shivers. I can tell he's fighting to stay awake through the cold air that's crawling into the room through the window and various other openings in the walls. “The second I stepped foot in Ireland, I felt this fuckin'...hole inside me. And it just got bigger and bigger and I couldn't figure the shit out. Every time I thought 'bout ya, it felt like the damn hole grew and I came to realize it was all a mistake. If anythin', I should've taken ya with us.”

I close my eyes tightly, thinking back on all the times that I'd wished I was dead as I screamed into my soaked pillows. The pain of losing him, of not knowing what had happened to him was too much to bear at the time. I was still so young and naive. I'd made Murphy my entire world and when he was gone, I had nothing. 

I shimmy to the edge of the bed and peek over. Murphy, who had been lying on his side, rolls onto his back to look up at me. His left arm curls behind his head and his right hand rests on his stomach.The promise to myself begins to creep into my mind, but I push it back. For once, I'm going to allow myself to give in to something I know will ruin me in the long run -- other than booze, that is. Fingers trembling, I reach down and place my thumb against his cheek. He doesn't flinch as I gently run it over his skin, feeling the tiny scar that I remember partially being my fault and the stubble of his oncoming beard. Then, I trail my thumb to his lips. They're still as soft as I remember. 

For the first time in so long, I want to cry, but not because I miss Murphy so much that it feels like my insides are disappearing altogether. I want to cry because I know that he'll be gone again soon and I'll be left to wonder what's happened to him. I won't miss him. I think I don't have the ability to miss him anymore. Even so, I continue to touch him, trying to decide if this is all real or if I was hit by a car on my way to work a week ago and I'm having some kind of fucked up coma dream. 

“I think this bed is big enough for both of us,” I say before I have the chance to stop myself. 

“Ya sure?” Murphy replies, his brows raising in disbelief. “I don't mind the floor.”

My hand wraps around his wrist and I gently pull him up. “C'mon.” I don't say anything more as he scoots onto the bed next to me, trailing the blankets with him. 

He tosses it over us, trying to divide it evenly. I end up with a little more, which doesn't surprise either of us. I'd always been a blanket hog and Murphy always swore I did it so he would be forced to press himself closer to me in his sleep. This was true.

In a matter of minutes, Murphy is fast asleep, a light snore coming from his mouth. I, however, am far from being able to even close my eyes for five seconds. My head is resting on his chest and I'm so wrapped up in focusing on his steady heartbeat that I don't notice Romeo stir awake at first. Murphy's arm curls around me, holding me against him. Even if I wanted to get up, there would be no way to break free from his grasp. Our legs naturally entangle each other's. The hair on his tickles my skin, but I welcome the sensation. I spend what feels like hours tracing his father's name tattooed on his chest and the Celtic cross on his forearm with my fingertips. 

Just as I begin to close my heavy eyelids, Romeo is up and moving around, stubbing his toes on random objects and hissing out strings of profanity. I pretend to be fast asleep as he taps on Connor's cheeks.

“C'mon, wake up, potato boy,” I hear him hiss. “My uncle's waitin'.”

“I'm up, I'm up,” Connor groans. “Get the fuck away from me.”

I can suddenly feel Romeo right next to me. “Aw, look at this shit,” he teases, obviously talking about Murphy and I sharing a bed. “So fuckin' cute that I may just throw up over the both of 'em. Ay, Murphy, get the fuck up and stop spoonin' with your chick.”

Much to my dismay, Murphy stirs awake from underneath me. “The fuck?” he gripes, the hand that had been resting on my hip reaching up to rub his face. Slowly and very gently, he grabs my arm and neck and slinks out from underneath me. The second I feel myself alone in the bed, my body immediately craves for his touch again. God, I must seem so pathetic. 

I hear the three of them move about the room, so I take this opportunity to roll over so they can't see what I'm doing. I dig out my phone and check the time. Four in the morning and these dipshits decide to go see Romeo's uncle? I almost find it hard to believe that I was dealing with the detectives only a few hours ago. Quickly and as quietly as I can, I type out a text to Tracey. _“Hey, not coming in,”_ I tell her. _“I'm puking my guts out. Probably the flu. I may need the next three days off.”_ I know she's going to come unglued when she reads it, but I push that thought to the back of my mind as Murphy's shadow looms over me. I hurry to hide my phone underneath my hair. 

“Sorry, Riddles,” he whispers. I crack open my eyes, pretending that he'd just woken me up. His face is so close to mine that if I moved forward even an inch, our noses would touch. “Hey,” he mumbles, putting on a smile that I know is fake. “Somethin' came up. We've gotta go for a bit.”

“I'm coming with,” I announce as I sit up and place my feet on the cold concrete. Murphy inhales to object, but I shake my head and cut him off with haste. “You admitted to knowing that I can hold my own,” I say as I grab for my gun in my backpack. I pull my hair up into the usual ponytail and slip on my shoes. “If you think its okay to show up on my doorstep and think I won't get involved, you've got another thing coming.”

Murphy looks to his brother desperately for back-up, but Connor only shrugs. “Worst case scenario, we can use her as a scapegoat,” he jokes before letting out a soft chuckle. I place my hand on his chest and shove him hard. 

“Hardy-fuckin'-har,” I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Let's go.”


	10. Wrong Impressions

_Then._

More than anything, I wanted my first day at the coffee house to go swimmingly. I didn't want to deal with rude customers, I didn't want to count the wrong amount of change, and I most definitely did not want to get caught up in Russian activities that should've had nothing to do with me. Unfortunately, every single one of those happened in that order. 

Tracey, the woman who became my boss, led me around the tiny shop and explained how things worked in a much too rushed manner. Not only was she speaking so quietly that I couldn't hear what she was saying, but her attention seemed to be elsewhere; she checked her phone for any messages at least four times in a minute. At the end of my five minute tour, I was placed in front of the register with nothing but Mark, a guy only a few years older than me who was introduced as “a professional coffee taster and maker.” What that implied, I soon found out. Mark had a habit of doing absolutely nothing and being absolutely helpless when I asked questions – he was too busy sipping on cup after cup of coffee. 

“Try this one,” he told me, shoving a cup in my face. “I put four pumps of hazelnut in it this time.” Steam rolled from the top and tickled my nose. I hurried to turn my head to the side. 

“No, thank you,” I replied as I eyed an approaching customer. “I don't like hazelnut.” I forced a smile onto my face. “Good morning, what can we make for you today?”

The woman in front of me seemed extremely important. Even though we were inside, she didn't take off her sunglasses and a phone was pressed to her ear. Between her straight row of blindly white teeth was a pink piece of gum, which she chewed on like a cow would chew on grass. A rather petite woman, her blonde, curly hair seemed to frame her body as it flowed down behind her. “Yes, honey, just hang on,” she said sweetly.

“Okay,” I responded automatically.

“Not you,” she hissed as she took the phone from her ear. “I'll have a large Caffè Americano with two extra shots of espresso and half portion water.” I must've been staring at her with my mouth open in complete confusion because she scoffed and shook her head. “Do you not understand English? Honestly, the one time I'm in a rush, they put a new girl at the register,” she snapped before looking toward Mark. “You, boy, you understand, yes?”

Rolling his eyes, Mark nearly slammed his cup of coffee onto the counter next to me and answered curtly, “Yes, yes. Ridley, ring her up for $7.50.”

“$7.50?!” the woman screeched, pressing her phone against her chest so whoever was on the other line couldn't hear her tantrum. “It was only $5 yesterday!”

Mark, who was already turning on the loud espresso machine, shrugged nonchalantly. “Hey, don't blame me. Blame the economy and your attitude.”

I expected the woman to blow like a volcano at this, but instead she let out a pouting sigh and nearly chucked her credit card at my face. It slammed against my chest before falling onto the counter. With a thousand questions racking my brain and trembling fingers, I hit the buttons on the old cash register in front of me. After swiping her card, printing out the receipt, and pushing it toward her to sign, I caught the biggest mistake I could've made that entire year. Instead of charging her for a $7.50 cup of coffee, I charged her $750.

Before I could rip the receipt out from under her, Mark had her coffee ready. She slammed the pen on the counter, grabbed the cup, and waltzed out of the building like she owned the place, chattering away on her phone once again. I stood frozen, trying to make the words come from my mouth to explain what I did. As Mark peered over my shoulder and burst out into a deep roar of laughter, I realized my words weren't needed. 

“No way,” he choked out. “No fuckin' way. I can't believe you did that!” I suddenly found my face pressed into his chest as he embraced me. “That bitch comes in here almost every single day and pulls the same shit. Bet she won't come back anytime soon! Good job!”

I wanted to say that I didn't mean to do it, but Mark hurried into Tracey's office behind us, yelling that she'll never guess what I pulled off. Fear settled inside me. This was it. I was going to be fired on my second day on the job, but Tracey's own howl of a laugh danced with Mark's and I knew I was safe for the time being.

(-)

The rest of the day was slow and uneventful, which was more than okay with me. I found myself distracted anyway. Murphy filled my thoughts, sending an uncomfortable pinch to my gut. Our kiss only two days before repeated in my head, although I didn't really want to consider it a kiss. It was just a spur of the moment explosion of happiness on my part.

Taking a quick glance around the place, I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled to his name. The twins shared a cell phone, but I doubted that Connor was going to be nosy enough when my name popped up on their screen. Mark, who was asleep in the corner, stirred slightly. I watched him until he settled back in the chair and exhaled in a slow snore. 

The phone only rang once before Murphy's eager voice answered, “Riddles?”

“Hey, Murph,” I mumbled, fondling a pen in my left hand. I hoped that the shop would continue to stay empty until I was finished talking to him. 

“Is everythin' all right?” 

“Ye-Yeah, yeah. Everything's good. Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other night. I shouldn't have done what I did.”

Murphy chuckled. I could hear his smile in his voice. “Don't worry 'bout it, lass,” he told me in a reassuring tone. “It wasn't like--”

“I'm so glad you understand,” I interrupted. “I mean, I just lost Trevor and all. I didn't want you to give you the wrong impression and I was worried that you were going to think that it actually meant something.” As soon as that came form my mouth, I wanted to rewind time and stop myself. It was almost as if I could hear Murphy's smile fall.

“N-No, of course not,” he deadpanned. “Um, apologies, Ridley. I-I've got to go. Have a good day at work.” Without another word, the line went dead. 

I shoved my phone back into my pocket, resisting the urge to kick myself for blurting that out. Feeling like a complete jackass, I ran a hand over my face. My day was nearly over and I was ready to get the hell out and escape to my bed. Mark mumbled in his sleep, something about adding more espresso shots. His face contorted into a scowl before falling rested again. I assumed he was dreaming about the woman before. 

As the seconds ticked away into minutes, and minutes into hours, I couldn't push Murphy from my mind. Every single time his face popped up in my thoughts, another wave of guilt racked through me. I'd told him that I didn't want to give him the wrong impression, but that was exactly what I was doing now. There was no doubt in my mind that I was attracted to Murphy, but he was just as much a friend to me as Connor was. Besides, I had just lost Trevor, although I was nowhere near heartbroken over it. 

“There's my hard-workin' girl!”

I lifted my gaze from the counter just as Mark jolted awake and fell from his chair. “Rocco?” 

Rocco, who seemed to be wearing the same shirt from the last time I saw him, strolled toward the counter with a goofy grin on his face. “Business seems to be boomin', huh?” he teased, leaning his elbows on the surface in front of me. I greeted him with a shy smile.

“Hey, buddy, no loitering,” Mark warned as if he actually gave a shit.

“What? I can't talk to my good friend Ridley?!”

“No, buy something or get out.”

Glaring daggers at the kid, Rocco fished around in his pockets for some spare change. “Fuckin' fine. Get me a fuckin' – I don't know – a fuckin' whatever. Just don't spit in it,” he ordered, raising an accusing finger in Mark's direction. “You fuckin' look like the spittin' kind.”

I had to suppress a giggle at Rocco's words. I truly enjoyed the way he talked to people. He didn't even try to pretend to be someone else; he was genuine and real with everyone he met, no matter who they were. When Mark flipped him the bird and started to put together his coffee, Rocco motioned me forward. I leaned close to him, to the point of nearly kissing his thick lips, and listened intently on his words. 

“Look, I need your help,” he whispered, his breath smelling of cigarettes. I craved Murphy's lips almost instantly. “I have a job to do later on tonight, say around ten. You in?”

“What will I be doing?” I questioned, feeling flattered that he came to me for help at all. 

A crooked smile spread across his bearded face. “Just look pretty, sweetheart.”

(-)

“This is a bunch of bullshit.”

“Yeah, but you look smokin'!”

I smoothed out my skirt as best I could, trying to get it to cover my butt. Every time I stopped pressing it down, though, it rode back up, revealing my underwear. The entire outfit that Rocco had given me was skimpy as all hell. The blouse pressed my boobs too close together, creating more cleavage than I really had. The heels were much too big; I felt like a three-legged giraffe in them. Even my make-up was too much. When I looked in the mirror, I expected to look like a clown. Instead, I looked more like an important business woman who didn't have time to deal with anyone's crap. 

“One more thing,” Rocco said from behind me, reaching for my hair tie. He gently pulled it out, allowing my hair to fall beautifully. It was never down much, so whenever it came out, it always seemed like it had grown another five inches. “Yeah, this'll work.”

We set out in the hotel toward the meeting room. Me, playing the role of a sultry bar tender, and Rocco, pretending to be a bellhop. I was supposed to walk into the Russian meeting, introduce myself with a fake name, and hurry to the bar. Hopefully I would be enough to distract the six men. After I got them all drunk, Rocco would come in and kill every single one of them, per his boss's orders. 

I knocked on the door, running my tongue over my front teeth to rid myself of lipstick that I swore kept smearing. A rather large, bald man opened it, scanned me up and down, and finally allowed me in. The second I entered the room, eight other men turned to face me, each of them bigger than the next. In the middle of the circle they formed, an especially ugly one sneered at me. He was shaped like a pear while his haircut made him look like a mushroom. 

“Who are you?” he demanded to know, his voice thick with a Russian accent. 

I swallowed hard, my knees already shaking. “Br-Brooke,” I answered. Murphy's voice ran through my head, telling me to breathe. So, I did what I did in my interview and took a deep inhale. “My name is Brooke and I'm your bartender for the night,” I repeated, this time with the utmost confidence. 

“We ordered no bartender,” the man informed me in disgust. “We have no use for you.”

“On the contrary,” I replied, heading toward the small bar in the corner of the room, making sure to swing my hips as much as possible, “you do. I'm on the house, or should I say, I'm _free_. I was told to do whatever you men wish to keep you happy.”

A few of the man around the room glanced at each other and raised their eyebrows. One of them nodded to himself, obviously trying to see if my skirt would go up any further. I pretended to absentmindedly pull it back down. “Fine,” the pear man spat. “Stay if you wish. One wrong move, we kill you.” This should have scared me senseless, but I just kept breathing. As I maneuvered about the bar like I was actually doing something productive, I stayed completely calm, even when pear man began shouting in Russian. Rocco would soon burst in at any moment and I would duck out of harm's way. 

Just as I sloppily poured my first shot – with every intention to throw it down my own throat – a loud crash sounded. I looked up just in time to see the roof fall in and two masked men, dangling from the electrical wires in the ceiling, spin helplessly in circles. I hurried to hide behind the bar, covering my ears as screams and gunshots rang out around the room. Tears sprang to my eyes when it was all over and spilled onto my cheeks. I covered my mouth with my hand as the two chanted the same prayer that I heard when Trevor was killed. Then, with one final shot, everything fell silent. 

“Well, name one thing you're gonna need the stupid fuckin' rope for,” one of the men teased. He sounded so familiar, but I was still so scared that I couldn't place my finger on it. 

“That was way easier than I thought,” the other replied. Then, it hit me. 

“Aye.”

“You know, on TV, you've got that got that one that jumps over the sofa.”

“And then you've got to shoot 'im for ten fuckin' minutes too.”

I grabbed the corner of the bar for support as I tried to pull myself onto my feet. More than anything, I didn't want it to be them. I wanted it to be two men I didn't know and would never have the business of knowing, but as I peeked over the surface and settled my teary gaze on their backs, I knew it was true. It was Connor and Murphy, sweaty and breathless. 

“Christ, we're good,” Murphy boasted, forming his hands into the shapes of guns. 

“Yes, we are,” Connor responded, giving his brother a gentle push. He turned and before he saw me, his eyes rested on a black bag on the bar. I hurried to grab at it, ready to use whatever it was as defense. “Ridley?”

Murphy's body whipped around, his face struck with horror. “Riddles?”

I wanted to say something to them, but my mind was racing at a thousand miles an hour. The two of them took down nine extremely important Russian gang-affiliated men, killed Trevor and countless other criminals, and managed to keep their faces off the media while doing it all. Suddenly, they were two unknown people to me. It was as if my week and a half of knowing them, instantly becoming their friend, and hanging out with them like we've known each other our entire lives was completely erased. These two were not my Connor and my Murphy.


	11. Want And Needs

_Now._

I glare at Romeo's face through the rear-view mirror hanging between him and Connor at the front of the car, if I can really call it a car. The thing – a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle, to be exact – is much too small for four people. It seems as though it was made for one very tiny person and half of another. I'm sitting so close to Murphy that I feel as though I'd be more comfortable sitting in his lap. He, being taller than I am, has to duck his head so he doesn't hit the roof when Romeo turns sharp corners or hauls ass over speed bumps. 

“Look, yer the one who wanted to come along,” Romeo spits, meeting my persistent glare through the mirror. “I told ya that this car ain't big enough for four people.”

“He did say that,” Murphy mumbles beside me. I smack the butt of my gun against his thigh.

“Shut up.”

Boston life at four in the morning is surprisingly active; construction workers are just now starting their day, homeless people are shooting up their first round of drugs, and police litter every corner. I watch Connor's reflection focus on the police cars as we pass them. He doesn't seem nervous at first, but from the way he's chewing on his lip, I can tell that they're making him uneasy. I turn my head to look at Murphy. He seems just as on edge as his brother, but he's trying harder to mask it. He strums his fingertips on the leg that is sitting still while the other bounces rhythmically. I want to reach over and lace my fingers between his, but I hold myself back. Just lying with him was too close for me. I didn't want him to think I was over the fact that he didn't even say goodbye. 

We finally stop in front of a rundown Mexican restaurant called The Silver Peso. Even at the early hours of the morning, the place is crowded with people. Who in their right mind wants a burrito at four in the morning? As Murphy is the first one to point it out on the menu, my question is answered. We stuff ourselves into a booth and wait in silence. My stomach rumbles, but I can't find it in me to eat. I'm too anxious to see what kind of guy Romeo's uncle is. 

After fifteen minutes, the man finally shows. He seems to be in his late fifties. Grey spots pop up in random places in his black hair, making it look as though he has salt and pepper on the top of his head. A frazzled mustache sits below his hooked nose. If he were to take off his glasses, I would say that he'd be what Romeo would look like in another twenty or so years. As he sits down next to his nephew, he seems calm and collected. I'm the first he sticks his hand out toward. 

“My name is Caesar,” he introduces with a polite smile. 

“I'm Ridley,” I reply softly. He carries himself so well that I'm instantly intimidated. 

“Pleasure.” Caesar lifts my hand to his lips. His mustache tickles my skin as he kisses it. Underneath the table, I feel Murphy's leg start to bounce again, just barely touching mine. 

The rest of the introductions are cut short because Caesar seems to know exactly who the twins are. He leans in toward them from across the table, his eyes full of some kind of unknown passion. “Yakavetta's gunning for you _muchachos_ , and hard,” he says gravely. “Even posted a reward, like Jesse James style shit.” 

I glance sideways at the boys. Neither of them seems fazed by this. Connor grabs for his beer that he ordered the second we sat down and takes a long swig. Murphy peeks behind Caesar's head toward the kitchen to see if he can spy on the process of his burrito. Romeo is too involved with the chips and salsa sitting in front of him to be concerned. 

“Anyway,” Caesar continues after ordering his own beer from a passing waiter, “any of his guys that take you out gets his palm crossed. Two hundred and fifty big ones.”

This grabs the boy's attention. Romeo licks his lips playfully toward Connor. “Quarter mil for us?” He seems so proud of that fact that I resist the urge to kick him underneath the table. 

“Us?” his uncle repeats. “What the hell are you talking about, us?” The two break out into a conversation in Spanish, thinking that their words are unknown. Unfortunately for them, the twins are both fluent in the language while I stare blankly at them, trying to pick up on words that I've read on the menu. Nothing seems to click.

“ _Él está con nosotros_ ,” Murphy interrupts, receiving a very odd stare from Caesar. Meanwhile, my heart is fluttering about in my chest. I know he did it on purpose. He could have very well said it in English, but he knows what talking in different tongues does to me, or did to me, I should say. 

I try to push the memory of his lips so close to my ear, whispering sweet nothings that I could never understand, but God, he sounded so good. My fingers twitch on my lap with the urge to wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips to his skin. “Talk to me, Irishboy,” I'd probably say. “Moan for me in Spanish, or French, or German! I don't care! Just fucking say anything to make me--” I stop my thoughts short and close my mouth, only just now realizing that its been open the entire time. I even missed the rest of their conversation about how great Romeo is. 

Attempting to focus on the words coming from Caesar's mouth, I mentally scold myself for falling back into that frame of mind. I tell myself that just because we shared a bed and he's talking in a different language doesn't mean that I need to give in to Murphy again. Deep down inside, though, I want to. I can't tell you how many nights I laid awake during the last eight years, picturing what it would be like if he was in my bed and replaying the nights that he was over and over again in my imagination. From the get-go, it seemed as if the sexual attraction between us was intense. That never truly went away. At least, not on my end. 

“Gorgeous George is running the show right now for little Yaka,” Caesar continues. “And if anyone knows where he is, its that fat fucking ugly _perico_. I'll get it out on the wire.”

My eyes follow his hand as he lifts it and settles it on Romeo's arm. Something changes in his nephew's expression. He looks surprised and almost a little relieved. Before I know it, there's a round of beer in front of us. I glance at my phone for the time, but Connor shoves a shot glass into my hand before I can. The scent of it immediately gives it away as well as bringing back a ocean full of memories. “Bottom's up,” he murmurs. “Shit's 'bout to get heavy.”

“Where's yours?” I question as I wrap my fingers around it. Connor only responds with a sly grin and turns to chatter away with Romeo. 

I know drinking so early is a terrible idea. A horrible idea, actually. But as Murphy turns his head to look at me, a shot glass in his own hand, I decide what the hell? If shit really does start to get heavy, I might as well drink while I can. After all, if I keep getting mixed up with the twins and their antics, I'm not sure how much longer I'll be around to complain about my life. Murphy and I press our glasses together in a soft clink and, before pouring the tequila down our throats, we press our lips to our own knuckles. 

“ _Go deo le leat_ ,” he whispers, his gaze boring into mine.

My heart flutters once more, but this time it isn't with some stupid urge to hop onto his lap with some kind of disgusting, teenage, sex-filled desire. This time, I'm sent back eight years to the very first time I heard those words. I'm sent back to the passion in Murphy's eyes when he explained what it meant. I'm sent back to the way his fingertips danced on my bare stomach as we talked about our family, starting with the one growing inside of me at the time. 

I repeat his words, translating them to English as I hear his voice in my head. “Forever with you.”

The tequila trickles down my throat, burning away at my insides. I place my shot glass back onto the table and wave down the waiter for another.

(-)

By the time we leave, its noon and I'm completely trashed. I stumble toward Romeo's shitty car, waving my gun high in the air. Pedestrians avoid me entirely like I'm some kind of crazy idiot who has just escaped from the loony bin. Murphy jogs to my side, grabs my gun from my hand, and shoves it between his skin and his belt. “Riddles, knock it off,” he hisses. “Yer gonna attract the wrong kind of attention.”

I try to push him from me as he wraps a heavy arm around my shoulders and opens the back door of the car for me. “I-I'm fine!” I exclaim. “I mean, look how fuckin' beautiful it is out here! Murph, I love Boston. Have I ever told you that?” I lean into him as he tries to nudge me into the car. 

“Just 'bout a million times before,” I hear him mumble in annoyance. “C'mon, Riddles, we're goin' to take ya back to McGinty's.”

I heave myself onto the seat with a pout. “Why?” I gripe. “Why don't I get to go out with you guys ever?”

A long time ago, I learned that at a certain point of drunkenness, time has a way of distorting itself. You could be sitting in a car with three men for what feels like three hours, but in reality its only been twenty minutes. During those seemingly three hours, you could realize that the man sitting next to you could be dead tomorrow because of the shit he gets himself into and you may or may not grab his hand and refuse to let go. This is one of those situations and as you've probably guessed, I refused, even when I'm inside the speakeasy. 

“I've got to go,” Murphy tells me for the tenth time, I think. His arms are locked around me awkwardly because his hand is stuck between us with mine. He leads me toward his bed, trying to ignore the continuous honking from Romeo's car outside. “Ya need to let go of me.”

“No,” I whine. Just as he gently pushes me back onto the mattress, I curl my arms around his neck and drag him with me. His face lands in the cushion of my boobs. “See, Murph, isn't this so much better than going out with those two?” I want to giggle, but I'm actually trying to be serious here.

Murphy lets out a muffled groan and lifts his head. “Stop it,” he growls, but I can tell he isn't angry in the least. In fact, through my drunken haze, I feel his lips on my neck, nipping softly when he isn't covering my skin in light kisses. With each one trailing down to my chest, I tell myself to listen to him, to stop, that this isn't okay. I internally argue with myself, my drunken thoughts telling me that I can just apologize for this later and I can go back to hating him. 

Suddenly, my skin is craving his lips again. Murphy lifts his head again, his eyes refusing to meet mine. I'm just lying here in his bed, my body pulsing with a need for his. “What's wrong?” I whisper. All at once, I feel the alcohol escaping my body, sobering me up more quickly than I want. 

At first, Murphy doesn't say anything. His eyes trail my body up and down, up and down, up and down. Then, he rests his forehead on mine and lets out a sigh. “Riddles,” he starts, his eyes clsoed. I know by his tone that something isn't right. “Ridley...I can't, I mean...we can't...” He seems upset that he can't get his words out right, so he pauses to gather himself before trying again. “Ya don't want this,” he tells me.

“Yes, I do--”

“Stop!” I can't help but flinch at his outburst. “No, ya don't. Trust me. I won't do this to ya. Ya don't want me and you'll realize it later.” He forces a cracked smile. “Don't forget to thank me when I get back.”

I watch Murphy grab the gun he placed on the table when we stumbled our way in. My mouth trembles, but I can't tell if its because I'm speechless or because I'm still waiting for him to kiss me goodbye. The door slams shut and suddenly, I'm a sobbing, drunken mess of a human being. I don't know why I'm crying because there's just so many things running through my head. 

But from this, I know one thing for sure. I want him. I know I do. Sober or drunk, I want Murphy fucking MacManus.


	12. Wild Animals

_Then._

I inched my way along the wall behind me, fearful of my life for the first time all day. Connor and Murphy watched me like they were scared of me, which was a joke in itself. “Y-You two...You guys ki-killed Trevor,” I stammered, holding the heavy bag tight against my chest. If anything, I could use it as a shield if they decided to kill me. Hopefully whatever was inside it was enough to hold back a bullet or two. 

“We can explain, lass,” Connor said without hesitation, holding his empty gloved hands up. “We're not gonna hurt ya.”

Murphy took a step closer to me. “Riddles, its okay. No guns. Look.” They both waved their hands side to side, showing me that they had no intention of hurting me. Or at least, that's what they wanted me to think. Another step closer, then another, and before I knew it, Murphy was only inches from me. I felt like his gaze had turned me to stone. He slowly reached for my arms, but I yanked myself away from him before he could put a finger on me. 

“Don't fucking touch me!” I screamed, another bout of tears escaping again. I wanted this to be just a bad dream. I didn't want to believe that they were murderers. In my mind, Murphy was so gentle – always smiling, laughing, and poking fun at me. But the man in front of me was nothing like that. I didn't know this man. 

“Ridley, its me,” Murphy whispered. I could hear the heartbreak in his voice. “Its me.”

From behind him, I watched Connor throw his hands up in exasperation and shake his head. “You've got to be fuckin' kiddin' me!” he exploded, his face suddenly burning red with anger. He paced the floor in circles, his eyes darting from the multitude of bodies, to me, then back to the bodies. “Ridley, you've been workin' with these fucks the entire time?!”

My mouth nearly dropped to the floor. “Are you kidding me?!” I shouted. “Of course not! This was Rocco's ide--” 

At that moment, a subtle knock came at the door followed by the buzz of the doorbell. The three of us fell silent for a short second before the twins pulled their masks back over their face and lifted their guns. Murphy whispered for me to get back behind the bar, but I refused to with a defiant raise of my middle finger. He didn't argue with me because Connor yanked on his arm, leading him to the door. I could barely hear their hushed conversation, but I was able to make out the words “fuck with 'im.”

The door was pulled open and shouting rumbled the walls. I clutched the bag tighter against me, my body trembling. My heart felt like it was going to pound out of my chest as I heard Rocco struggling against the two. I jolted at the sound of loud crashes and the twin's voices yelling so loud that it no longer sounded like them. 

“GET DOWN! GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND!” Murphy bellowed. Connor, who had a firm grip of Rocco by his hair, pushed him down near the body of the pear man. The part of me that wasn't terrified for both our lives wanted to laugh in hysterics at his expression. He looked more scared than I felt. 

“Don't shoot!” Rocco pleaded, holding up his hands in forfeit. “Please don't shoot! We're on the same side!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Connor shrieked. 

Once they had successfully wrangled him to the ground, Murphy started for me while his brother pressed the muzzle of his gun to Rocco's nose. I let out a panicked yelp as Murphy wrapped an arm around my neck which in turn caused me to drop the bag and swing my arms wildly in some kind of desperate, frenzied defense. Unfortunately, he was much stronger than me and was able to secure my hands behind my back and press the gun to the side of my head. “I ain't gonna hurt ya,” he whispered quickly into my ear. “I promise.”

Every sensible part of me told me not to believe him, but I froze for a moment to ponder on our stance. The arm around my neck was barely touching me; I could've easily broken free from his grasp if I wanted to. And the way he stood with his legs parted without turning at an angle left him wide open for a backward groin kick. Even through the blurred vision of my sideways glance, I could barely make out that his finger was nowhere near the trigger.

“We're on the same side! Boss must've sent me in as backup! I'm Rocco!” Rocco tried to convince Connor through his heavy breathing. Sweat dripped from his hair and dampened his clothes around his armpits. “If you're gonna shoot anyone, shoot her!” He lifted a shaking finger to point in my direction. Anger erupted inside me like a firecracker. 

“Hey, fuck you!” I shrieked, starting for him. Murphy held me in place. I wasn't sure if it was to keep Rocco safe from my wrath or if it was to keep up the persona he was playing on. “You asked for my help, remember?! So fu--” 

“WHERE'S YER GUN?!” Connor shouted, cutting me off completely. 

Instead of showing him right away, Rocco continued to desperately and incoherently babble on for his life. Murphy's gun left the side of my head and pointed to him. “SHOW HIM YER FUCKIN' GUN OR I'LL SHOOT YER FUCKIN' BRAINS OUT!” he roared. I flinched away from his voice as images of Trevor's face during his rage episodes popped into my mind. Murphy must've felt my sudden movement because his thumb started to trace invisible circles smoothly over my skin on my shoulder. 

“I-Its here!” Rocco replied, pointing down to his pocket. While Connor fished about in his clothes, Rocco remained persistent with his ramblings. “I-I'm the funny man! I'm Rocco!”

Then, after inspecting the gun, Connor stood up straight and threw his hands in the air once more. This seemed to be something he did often when he realized something that upset him. Rocco's gun in his hand, he nearly sprinted to Murphy and me. “A fuckin' six-shooter!” he hissed after smacking his brother's arm with it. 

I felt Murphy tense up behind me. “There's nine bodies, genius!” he mocked. 

“What the fuck were you gonna do? _Laugh_ the other three to death, _funny man?!_ ” Connor demanded to know, hurrying back to Rocco's side.

“Pappa Joe said there was only two!” Rocco cried out. “In and out! Boy...you guys sure did a good job. You guys are good, huh? S-Say, i-if you let me loose, you can have her. I-I've heard real good things about her. I b-bet if you ask her real nicely, she'll go own on you in three seconds flat, man!”

My mouth nearly hit the floor at his words. That made it twice that day that I felt utterly betrayed and heartbroken. I'd helped Rocco, thinking he was a friend to me. I'd risked my life so that he could follow his boss's orders. Now, he was selling me out to men he thought neither of us knew. My stomach lurched as tears clouded my eyes once more. Before I could say anything as a rebuttal, Murphy had left my side and shoved his gun right in between Rocco's eyes. 

“You shut yer fuckin' mouth,” he growled slowly and dangerously. From the tone of his voice, I could tell that he was no longer just trying to play some kind of sick joke on Rocco. “Don't ever fuckin' say anythin' like that about her again. Do ya under-fuckin'-stand me?” 

As much as I didn't want to get mixed up in all of this, I saw this as the perfect chance to get back at Rocco for basically using me as human bait. I slowly approached the brothers, paying attention to the clicking of my heels on the tile floor. Something about the noise made me feel powerful and that feeling only grew when I placed my hands on the twin's shoulders. “Well, Rocco,” I started, putting on my most sultry smirk, “looks like you've set yourself up. I've hired these two to put you out of commission.”

Rocco's eyes looked as though they were going to pop from his head. His face turned crimson and as he struggled against the two and yelled, spittle flew from his mouth. “WHAT?!” he howled angrily. “This whole fuckin' time – You've got to be kiddin' me! Shit! Who put ya up to it?! Who the fuck was it?!”

The fact that he actually believed me sent a strange sort of happiness and satisfaction through me. “Boys,” I said. Rocco let out a noise that sounded like a frantic animal trying to escape from its captor when the dual clicks of the guns seemed to echo all around us. “I think its time to finish this.”

At that moment, Rocco burst out into pathetic sobs for help. I couldn't hold it back anymore. A laugh broke through my lips and I turned away to suppress it. The twins mimicked me as they lifted their masks. Rocco's cries slowly died down into heavy pants and gasps for air. With the utmost hesitation, he lifted himself from the floor and stared at me like I was some sort of wild animal. In all honestly, I felt like I was. Pretending to turn the tables on him started something new inside me. I felt powerful, confident, and most importantly, I felt like nothing could ever harm me again. 

“Fuckin'... What the fuckin' fuck – Who the fuck – Fuck this fuckin' – How did you three fuckin' fucks – Fuck!” Rocco exclaimed, flailing his arms about in every which way and jumping up and down like a three-year-old throwing a temper trantrum. 

“Well, that certainly illustrates the diversity of the word,” Connor commented, heading for the black bag that I'd dropped earlier. In all the excitement, I had forgotten that it even existed. 

I grabbed for it as quickly as I could, nearly breaking my ankles and the high heels in the process. “Now, hold on a minute,” I snapped curtly, folding my arms around it. “You guys put me through quite a bit of shock, you know. Don't you dare think I've forgiven you from keeping all this from me. I think I should be the first one to open this.” 

Murphy and Connor glanced toward Rocco, who was still fidgeting around in in rage and confusion before giving each other a wary stare. “All right,” Murphy finally replied. “Go ahead then.”

I placed the bag on the bar and inhaled slowly. Whatever was in it must've been important because, well, why else would the mobsters bring it here? It had also been the first thing Connor looked for after killing all the men. For a quick moment, I turned my attention to the bodies that littered the couches and the floors. The police would be here soon if the other customers in the hotel heard all the gunshots. There was no doubt about that. I lifted my gaze to the gaping hole in the roof. If the police showed up and we were still here, the four of us would spend the rest of our lives in prison. 

Deciding that there was no time to waste, I nearly ripped the bag open. My heart felt as if it had dropped from my chest, out of my ass, and onto the floor. “Holy crap,” I breathed, all the air inside me catching in my lungs. Murphy joined at my side and curled his hand around one of the many stacks of hundred dollar bills. Taking a deep whiff of it, he closed his eyes and nodded to himself. 

“I think this'll work out perfectly for us, Riddles,” he informed me, wafting the scent of the money in my direction. It smelled like dust and marijuana. “Ya might as well quit that shit job.”

(-)

“...live from the Copley Hotel Plaza where we have just been informed that the largest multiple murder in Boston's history has just taken place,” Sally McBride spoke through the tiny TV that sat on Rocco's cluttered kitchen counter. I felt as though I was nibbling through my entire bottom lip as I listened to every word that fell off her tongue. “We have learned that there were nine victims all deeply involved in a notoriously violent Russian crime syndic--”

The TV flashed off, showing me my pathetic reflection in the screen. Our getaway to Rocco's home had been so rushed that I ripped a hole in my shirt on my left side. My hair looked as though a tornado had rolled through it and the make-up that I thought had accented the features of my face smeared every which way. I glared at Murphy through the darkness of the screen as he dropped the remote onto the circular table, cluttered with stinky ashtrays and empty beer bottles. In his hand, he swished around a fancy-looking glass container of whiskey. 

“Ya don't need to concern yerself that that shit,” Murphy grumbled, his eyes glazed over with a drunken stare. “What's done is done.”

I turned my head, crossed my arms tightly over my chest, and pursed my lips into a thin line. “Until the cops find you two,” I murmured bitterly, listening to the loud shouts from the bathroom. Connor and Rocco were both trying to take a shower and both of them refused to let the other go first. So, in their drunken state, they stumbled into bathroom together and began shouting that they had better not look at the other's dick. “This is some serious shit,” I continued, breaking my awkward eye-contact with Murphy. “You guys are murderers.” The word tasted sour on my tongue.

Murphy raised a finger, seemingly trying to stop me in the middle of my sentence. I'd finished before he had the chance to. “Not murderers,” he defended. “Just...riddin' the streets of evil men, like Trevor.”

I wanted to tell him to keep Trevor's name out of his mouth, but the realization that he and Connor were the ones to finally put an end to all the abuse hit me like a smack to the face. I fell silent while words jumbled inside me, trying to make sense of each other and find an escape through my mouth. After a moment of wondering if I should just let those words fly free, I finally let out a pitiful sigh and sat down across the table from Murphy. “Thank you,” I whispered, staring at my hands in my lap. “I know that thanking someone for killing another person is terrible, but...”

Murphy lifted his whiskey bottle upward, pointing to me with the pinkie finger on the same hand. “Yer welcome,” he said. I could tell that he was trying to feign a tone of seriousness. “Connor and I – we care about ya, Riddles. We just can't sit back and let ya get hurt like that.”

My life had transitioned so quickly in less than two weeks that I couldn't help but silently laugh to myself. I'd moved states away from my family, watched my boyfriend get shot in the back of the head, and taken part in kind of screwed up mafia business. Thankful that my parents were so livid with me that they hadn't tried to contact me since the move, I wondered what they would say if I told them. They'd be speechless, I'm sure. My father would probably deny that I was the same girl he raised to be a proper lady and my mother, well, she'd probably just sob oceans. It certainly was something I planned to keep from them for as long as possible.

I wiped at the make-up on my face and glanced at the smudges on my fingers. I realized that I was still trembling with either shock or adrenaline from running from the sirens that sounded as soon as we'd exited the hotel. “I look like shit,” I mumbled mostly to myself. 

“Ya look beautiful,” Murphy replied, gulping down a mouthful of whiskey. He slammed the bottle so hard onto the table that I flinched in expectation of the glass to shatter into a million tiny shards.“As always.”

I pretended that I didn't hear him as Connor and Rocco staggered their way in, arms linked around each other and half naked. “All yers,” Connor informed me and pointed behind him toward the bathroom with his thumb. Nodding to the two of them, I rushed past them and nearly slammed the bathroom door shut as I entered. 

Their clothes littered the floor and the sink. After throwing them into a pile in the corner, I inspected my face in the mirror. Although I should've been more focused on making myself look presentable again, my mind was clouded with thoughts of the large amount of money that was in that black bag. The second we got to Rocco's house, Murphy handed me nearly $20,000 and told me to quit my job again. I imagined that lump of money sitting in my purse, burning a hole through the fabric. What the hell was I supposed to do with all of it? Well, thinking on it, I could buy a car or put a down payment on a house. Something inside me told me that spending it right away wasn't a good idea, though.

The metal in the shower squeaked loudly as I turned the knobs on. I waited for the warm water before stripping myself of my trashed clothes that smelled too much like cigarettes and stepped inside the tub, pulling the curtain shut behind me. Letting the water hit my body, I just stood in place, trying to figure out where I was going from here. I couldn't allow myself to get mixed up in the actions of the twins again. That would mean putting my life at risk. Even so, just the thought of something happening to either one of them, especially Murphy, sent my stomach into painful cartwheels. 

Somewhere in the steam of that shower as I watched the make-up that had been caked on my face run down my skin and twirl into the drain, my entire world shifted. I no longer wanted to be the cowardly little girl that Trevor had spent three years of his life molding. I didn't want to shrink away from people because I thought they would yell at me or hit me. Instead, I wanted to be the one to fight back against them. When I pictured myself standing up for my being, no matter what, I saw Murphy by my side. 

That was strange in itself. I barely knew anything about the guy and yet I found myself thinking about him almost constantly when I wasn't around him. I'd never had this sort of unknown attraction to anyone else before – not even Trevor. When I first met the asshole, it was just a casual thing until he made it official by asking me to be his girlfriend. Even then, I found myself wanting space from him. That wasn't the case with Murphy. Not at all. I craved his attention, the smell of his clothes, and most of all, that taste of booze and cigarettes on his lips. 

I couldn't help but chuckle to myself when I thought about that last one. We'd shared only one kiss that didn't even last for a full thirty seconds. It shouldn't have meant anything, just like I told him over the phone earlier in the day, but it did. I knew it and I figured he knew it as well from the way I would sneak quick glances at his lips and lick my own without realizing it. It was as if he was my own personal cigarette and I wasn't willing to quit him. 

A loud bang dragged me from my shower thoughts. “Hurry up, Ridley!” Rocco shouted over the noise of the running water. “I need t'piss!”

I turned the knobs in the opposite direction and wrapped a towel around myself before stepping from the tub. Luckily, I'd done it just in time because Rocco burst into the tiny bathroom, whipped out his dick right in front of me, and began to pee in the toilet. I wrinkled my nose in disgust and grabbed for my clothes on the ground. “You couldn't have waited?” I muttered as I made my way into the trashy living room. Connor and Murphy both glanced at me and immediately turned their heads away. “Rocco kicked me out of the bathroom,” I explained, starting for the hallway to what I supposed was our oh-so-inviting host's room. 

Rocco's room was just like the rest of his place: dirty, smelled of old food, and looked as if hookers had been sleeping in the corners for the past month. A disheveled mattress, lacking proper sheets and pillowcases, sat against the wall to my left. Filled with crumpled tissues and cigarette ashes, a small trashcan had been settled underneath the only window. Other than those two things, the only other notable objects were an old wooden, four drawer dresser and a TV with a shattered screen. I wasn't looking to take shelter here, though. I dropped my clothes onto the floor and just before I rid myself of the towel, another knock came at the door. 

“Rocco, I gave you the bathroom!” I griped, turning to grab the dented doorknob. “Give me some privacy, will yo – Oh, Murphy...” I adjusted the towel around me, making sure my boobs were covered.

Murphy offered me a drunken grin and held out his jacket toward me. “Its not much,” he said, “but we don't really have any clothes that'll fit ya. We can't really let ya go back to yer place either. The pigs might've gotten yer face on camera, ya know?”

“Murphy.”

“I just don't want ya to get caught up in this shit. I mean, you're really--”

“Murph.”

“--innocent and somethin' like this could ruin the rest of yer life and--”

I placed my hand on his chest to shut him up. “You're rambling,” I told him. “You're drunk and you're rambling.” I took the jacket from him and pressed my lips to his check, savoring the light tickle of his stubble against my skin. “You're very sweet. Thank you. I'll be out in a minute, okay?”

Murphy nodded, his cheeks pink with an embarrassed blush. Just before I closed the door, he stuck his foot in to stop me. “Oh, and Riddles, one more thing. I wasn't ever gonna shoot ya. I hope ya know that.”

“I know,” I answered softly, staring at his foot. “I trust you.”

He hesitated before retracting his limb. I closed the door, making sure to lock it this time, and slipped his jacket over my shoulders as the towel finally dropped onto my pile of old clothes. It was rather large on him, so on me, it was like wearing a blanket. The bottom sat halfway down my thighs, giving off the impression that I was wearing a baggy dress. Grimacing, I grabbed for my underwear and pulled them back on, knowing in relief that all my most intimate of parts were covered. 

Before I returned to the boys out in the kitchen, I gave myself a quick glance in the window. It was so dark outside that the glass served as a better mirror than the one in bathroom did. At least this one wasn't nearly covered with dried water stains and droplets of some unknown substance that I really didn't want to waste my time thinking about. As I watched myself, I decided on a single thing: without Trevor holding me back, I was free to be whoever and whatever I wanted to be. 

A smile playing on my lips, I turned from my reflection, opened the door, and chose to join my new family in whatever would come next.


	13. Family Matters

_Now._

I wake up to a beating heart that doesn't belong to me. At least, not anymore. 

Outside the tiny window, darkness is still lingering and cold air is seeping in through the cracks of the building. As much as I want to stay in bed, curled up next to Murphy, I know that while their snores rumble the walls, this is my only chance to sneak home if only for an hour. I want my shower, I want my coffee pot, and goddamnit, I want my hairbrush. Why I forgot to pack something as simple as that, I'll never know. Forgetfulness seems to be something that is more than familiar with me these days. I'm not sure if its because of my relationship with booze or if its because my mind is beginning to wear in my old age. 

I lift myself from the mattress, freezing in an ugly cringe as the metal squeaks underneath my weight. Instead of shooting up in a panic like I expect him to, Murphy lifts his fingers into a gun motion and mumbles, “Pow pow, motherfuckers.” Then, his arms fall back to his chest and he lets out a sigh full of slumber. From a few feet away, Connor is lost in his own dreams. I can't make out anything he's saying, but his legs twitch in a way that makes me think he's running from something, or someone. On the other side of the room, Romeo's snores hitch for a moment and he farts. 

Making my way around the room as quietly as possible, I change clothes and holster my gun between my belt and my stomach. The metal feels colder than the air around me and I resist the urge to shiver at the touch. Just before I make my way down the tight flight of stairs, I take a second to sneak a peek at Murphy. He's sprawled out across the bed, his arms wrapped around a lump of blankets that I had folded to take my place. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, my fingers delicately dance across the skin on his forehead as I push back a lock of his hair, noting that he's going to start complaining about the length soon. Murphy never was one for having his hair constantly blocking his view. 

“Where're you goin'?” he mutters sluggishly, his eyelids cracking open to reveal the two piercing blue orbs. 

My hand immediately snaps back to my side. “Just out to get some fresh air,” I lie. “Your buddy over there keeps playing his butt trumpet.” 

A dazed smirk spreads across Murphy's face as his eyes close once more. “He's a stinky fucker, that's fer sure,” he replies softly. The expression of happiness disappears as quickly as it came on. “Yer comin' back, right?” 

I'd always had a hard time lying to Murphy, especially back when I thought he always deserved the truth. The one time I tried and successfully pulled it off, I only came running back to him the same day in tears, nearly shouting that I had lied to him and that I was sorry. Then again, that situation had been quite a bit different. This wasn't as serious. “Of course,” I say. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

I'm tempted to take one of the empty cigarette packs with me so I can tell Murphy that I've picked up smoking as well as become an alcoholic during his absence, but I know that that's one lie he'll never believe. So instead, I flash him a halfhearted smile and rush downstairs into the pub. The regulars without families are there, sulking into their pints of beer and tossing back whatever they have in their shot glasses. From behind the bar, Doc peers at me from over his glasses. I offer a friendly wave before stuffing my hands deep into my pockets and heading out the door. 

I'm not sure exactly what time it is until I check my phone, which is flashing relentlessly to tell me that its going to die soon. Its nearing three in the morning and I have an unread text. Expecting Tracey or Shauna, I roll my eyes and click to read it. My steps stop short at the message. 

_“Ridley, its your cousin,”_ the text reads. _“We need to have a chat. I'll stop by your place tonight.”_

My chest feels as though its on fire. I check the time the text was received – a whopping four hours ago – and let out a long string of profanities as I begin a painful sprint to my apartment. My cousin, one of the most respected FBI Task Force agents who hasn't tried to each me in nearly four years, wants to speak to me. This could either be one of those cheesy family reunion type things, or I'm in some serious shit yet again and now I have some questions to answer to. Just the thought of that sends my stomach into tight twists. 

I feel as though my legs aren't moving fast enough and that my apartment is suddenly located on the other side of Boston. Why the hell would she want to have a chat with me? All at once, every single terrible thing I've ever done flashes in my mind. If a member of the FBI is trying to get involved with me, it must be something huge. Then again, maybe she just wants to speak with me as my cousin, to catch up and talk about my parents or something. It seems extremely unlikely, but at this point, I'm trying to tell myself anything to calm down. 

And I swear, if Dolly, Duffy, or Greenly mentioned my name to anyone about anything, I'm going to castrate all three of them. 

I trip a total of three times running up the stairs to my apartment building. As I come closer to the door, I notice my curtains are wide open. I never leave them like that, especially when I'm not home. Grabbing for my gun, I rest my finger on the trigger. After counting down from three in my head, I turn the knob and push the door open with my shoulder, settling the sights of my gun on the auburn-haired beauty sitting on my couch, a cup of tea in a mug that doesn't belong to me in her hands. She turns her head and offers me her most gentile smile. 

“Now, now, baby cousin. There's no need to be pointin' your gun at me.”

I let out a sigh of annoyance and relief and fasten my gun back into its place. “You do realize you're only three years older than me, right, Eunice?” I groan as I shut my door behind me. 

Eunice is one of those women who doesn't age. She's looked nearly the same since she was sixteen when she crashed my father's truck and put the blame on me. Of course, because I was only thirteen at the time, everyone believed the older, more mature cousin and I was grounded for six months. Since then, her name has left a bitter taste in my mouth even though we've both grown so much since then. When my parents had informed me of her success as an FBI agent, I couldn't help but feel some sort of jealous resentment toward her not only for the fact that she made a shit ton more money than I did, but because it was people like her that made Murphy and Connor leave Boston in the first place. 

“Quite a place you've got here,” Eunice comments as she stands and strolls around the place like she owns it. Although her tone doesn't give it away, I can tell by the scrutinizing look in her eye that she's being completely sarcastic. 

“Why are you here?” I bluntly ask. “In Boston, I mean.” I'm not really in the mood to deal with her nor do I have the energy. Slumping on my couch, I indulge in the fact that for the first time in a few days, I'm home. Nothing beats feeling like you're not out of place. That is, when your snooping cousin isn't poking her nose around your area. “And why the hell are you so interested in my things?”

Eunice enters my kitchen like a cat stalking its prey, her heels clicking on the linoleum loudly, sending a wave of nostalgia through me. My fingers strum anxiously on my knee as I watch her glance over the pictures I have on my fridge of my parents and a few newspaper clippings that I started collecting when word of the twins' return began making its way around Boston. She pulls her glossy bottom lip underneath her front teeth as she stares at them. “I'm here on behalf of a dearly departed mutual friend,” she finally says, a hint of sadness radiating off her voice. “I'm sure you remember our beloved Agent Paul Smecker.”

The mention of Smecker's name feels like a knee to the gut. When I'd found out about his death through Dolly, I nearly spiraled into the same depressed state that I had when the twins left. He had been such a help to me that I had grown to greatly respect and look up to the man. “How do you know him? And how did you figure out where I live?” I demand to know, leaning my elbows on my knees to try to lessen the pain in my stomach. Bringing up Smecker is a huge step over the line for her. 

“One question at a time, sweetheart,” Eunice mumbles, fondling a fake plant that sits next to my microwave. She takes a small sip of her tea. “Agent Smecker was my mentor, my teacher, and the greatest man to ever grace the earth with his presence. As far as your address, baby cousin, have you forgotten my occupation?” 

How could I possibly forget it when its all my family ever talks about? Eunice is doing such great things with her life. Eunice has gotten so gorgeous since the last time we've seen her. I'm surprised Eunice is _still_ single! Oh, Ridley, you're still working at that debt collection company? Did you cut your hair – oh no, you've just positioned your ponytail differently. You've been broken up with again? That's a shame. _Fucking puke._

“Please, spare me the 'Eunice is perfect' speech,” I mutter, cupping my cheek with my palm. “You still haven't told me why you're here fishing through my shit.”

“I wouldn't call it 'fishing' necessarily,” she replies as she leisurely makes her way back toward the couch. “Just...observing.”

My eyes are locked on her slender figure as she finally takes a seat next to me. At first, she's quiet, which is strange. I almost want to offer her some coffee as I do with everyone who visits, but memories of the last time I tried that come rushing back to me. I grimace at the lecture I received about the stuff staining your teeth and ultimately decide against being hospitable. Eunice throws back her head, closes her eyes, and lets the last little bit of her tea trickle down her throat. 

“The Saints,” she starts as she lowers her gaze back to me, sending my insides haywire. Every single hair on my body stands on end. “I know you've been wrangled up in it all again and that's why I'm here.”

At first, I'm speechless as I try to figure out how she knows these things. Then, it hits me. My trio of detective friends. “You're working with those idiots, aren't you?” I question. “Greenly, Dolly, and Duffy, I mean.”

Eunice breaks out into a melodious giggle and shakes her head, staring off toward my pathetically old TV. “I am,” she answers. “They're quite taken by you, y'know. You're like a little sister to them.”

I pull myself up from the comfort of my couch and make my way to the kitchen. In my pocket, my phone vibrates unforgivingly. Knowing that its Murphy is calling me over and over again, I play it off like I don't feel anything. The last thing I need is my phone to be confiscated due to criminal association. Eunice may be family, but she made it clear long ago that she her job comes before anything else. “They're good guys,” I say with a plastic smile. “There have been plenty of times that they've walked my drunken ass home from bars. So, let me guess, they told you that I may be in danger from Yakavetta, right?” 

Eunice's glistening eyes lift to meet mine. I awkwardly avoid prolonged eye-contact by pretending to brew a pot of coffee. Behind the eight inch counter ledge that separates my kitchen from the living room, I shuffle papers with one hand while pulling my phone from my pocket with the other. Five missed calls from the phone that the twins share and three texts messages. I hurry to click on one while cluttering a spoon against the surface. 

_“Riddles the hell r u?”_ the first message reads. _“u said 15 mins. r u ok?”_

_“If you don't come into work today, consider yourself fired. You can't just take three days off without a future notice,”_ the second text says. Tracey...

Before I can check the last text, Eunice finally responds to my question. “That's right, baby cousin,” she declares quietly. “I don't think anyone realizes just how much danger you could be in and that's why I'm going to need your help.”

Suddenly, I think I'm in a dream. Eunice is asking for _my_ help? That's definitely a first. “With what?” I reply curtly, inconspicuously slipping my phone back into my pocket. Even though I try to come across as harshly as I can, she seems unfazed by my tone. Actually, she pulls the corners of her lips into a teeny smirk, which irritates the hell out of me. 

She stands and strolls into my kitchen, swaying her hips seductively. That was another thing I couldn't stand about Eunice: everything about her dripped with natural sex appeal – something I lacked. “The next time your lover boy decides to spill the beans on more mobster activity,” she says, taking a quick glance downward at my pocket, “I need you to tell me as soon as possible. If I don't interfere, the cops will be on them like flies on shit.” 

In her heels, she towers over me, making me feel even more unimportant than I really am compared to her. I find it hard to lift my head to meet her eyes. Inside me, jealousy is swirling once more. I refuse to sit back and let her save the boys all on her own. Not because she's incapable – trust me, she's _more_ than capable. Its because, as much as I try to push the fact away, I feel some sort of obligation to help them. After all, if it hadn't been for them, I would've been long dead eight years ago. “How did you know?” I ask after a small nod.

Eunice chuckles and cups my cheek with her dainty hand. “Your mother was eager to tell me every little detail about your life when I asked,” she informs me. “Including your former love interest.”

Only then do I meet her demanding stare, my own eyes wild, frantic, and anxious. How much did Mom tell her? How much did _I_ tell _Mom_? I rack my memory, trying to remember every word that escaped my mouth during previous phone conversations. My apartment, Trevor's death, the baby, Murphy, Murphy, Murphy...

“Oh, fuck,” I hiss, gently pushing her hand from my face. I turn from her, cross my arms on the counter top, and hide my face in them. “Fuckin' shit, Mom.” 

I hear Eunice's heel click clack away from me and she leaves me with one final word of advice before slipping out through the door. “Next time, baby cousin, don't clue your mother in on the fact that your boyfriend 'cleans up the streets of Boston.'” 

I refuse to lift my head in embarrassment until I hear the door close. Then, like a volcano, I explode into a series of loud shouts and groans. How could I have been so stupid? Well, I was only twenty-one at the time. Back then, most of my decisions were stupid. No, correction: all of them were stupid. Quieting myself down after hearing the muffled _thud-thud-thud_ coming from the apartment below me, I jam my hand into my pocket, readying myself to give my mother a good talking to. But I stop short and think about my next actions. Eunice probably contacted her as a member of the FBI. If that was the case, Mom would've had no choice but to answer her questions. 

Trying to figure out my next moves, I decide to actually make coffee. As I pile the grounds into the filter and fill the back of the tiny machine with water from the sink, my stomach churns painfully. If I do what Eunice tells me to, I know that it'll only upset the boys. They'll think I'm ratting them out or something, but if I don't tell her, then worse things will happen to them. Only when I begin to fish around my kitchen for a clean coffee cup do I notice that I'm starting to cry. “Fuck,” I moan, pulling my shirt over my face to soak up the tears before they can fall from my eyes. At first, I don't know why I'm crying. Since Murphy and Connor left all those years ago, I've tried to train myself to not break down. It could be all the stress of the boys shoving themselves back into my life, the threat of losing my job, or the fact that even though I didn't want to get involved in all this at first, I'm stuck in the middle again. 

My door flies open with a loud bang and in an instant, my gun is drawn and pointed to his head. Letting out a heavy sigh, I lower the weapon and close my eyes. “Ridley,” Murphy breathes. At that moment, I realize why I'm crying. Even through all the heartbreak he put me through, I can't stand the thought of losing Murphy again – not to Yakavetta and not to the police. Just the thought of it makes my knees weak and urges the stomach bile up through my throat. I force it down and set my gun on my counter, settling my face in my shirt again. My shoulders tremble violently with my silent sobs. He picked the worst time to barge into my apartment, as always. 

I don't have time or energy to scold him. Before I know it, my face is pressed into Murphy's skin just near the crook of his neck. His rapid heartbeat against my shoulder and ragged breathing gives away that he probably sprinted the entire way here. At first, he doesn't say a word. He trails his fingertips lightly over the skin of my neck and down my arms. Ever so gently, he pulls me toward the couch and lets me just curl up against him and cry and cry and cry until I'm nothing but a hiccuping, red-faced, make-up smeared mess of what should be an independent, strong, “take no shit from nobody” kind of woman. I'm ashamed that Murphy is seeing me like this, but when I finally lift my head, he offers me a soft smile. 

“I was worried. I'm guessin' ya haven't checked yer phone,” he tells me, obviously aware that I'm displeased with the fact that he basically broke into my place. He wipes his thumb at a smudge of eyeliner just below my right eye. “What happened?" 

As guilty as I feel about it, I know I can't tell him about Eunice. At least, not until I've given it ten years worth of thought. So instead, I shake my head and tear myself from him. “I made coffee,” I manage to croak out. “Want some?" 

Murphy nods his head. “Sure.” Long ago, I found out that one of the best things about him was that he didn't pry. Not usually, anyway. 

I use this small distraction to my advantage. Once I'm in the safety of the kitchen again, I check my phone. Another threatening text from Tracey and the unread one from before. I ignore my boss's. 

_“im coming 2 ur place 2 c if ur there.”_

I glance up at Murphy through my teary vision. He's hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers clasped tightly together. He bows his head and supports his forehead with his thumbs. I pour him a cup of coffee and debate on getting one for myself. Something is urging me away from the coffee, which rarely ever happens. Alongside whiskey sours, I drink the stuff like water. When I sit next to Murphy again and hold the cup near his face, it takes him a moment to acknowledge my presence. He glances sideways at me, takes the cup, and stares into the black liquid. 

“I have to go to work today,” I inform him as if I'm really telling him that his dog didn't make it through surgery. 

“What time?” His voice sounds strained. 

After pulling my phone out one last time, I grimace at the sight of the dark screen. My eyes hover toward the digital clock on the other side of the room. Eunice has a way of making time fly by but exhausting you at the same time. “I have to be there by eleven at the latest.” 

I watch in astonishment and disgust as Murphy chugs the cup of coffee. How the stuff isn't setting his insides on fire is beyond me. He stands in a stretch, walks toward the counter wall, places the cup in the sink, and juts his head toward the door. “Let's go,” he says confidently. 

“I still have five hours before I hav--” 

“I know,” he interrupts. “We're goin' out to breakfast. I'm starvin'.” 

I open my mouth to object, but the persistent growling settling deep in my stomach makes its way through the silence. I have no choice but to let out a defeated sigh and join his side, mumbling a quiet, “Fine, have it your way.” 


	14. So Damned Beautiful

_Then._

“Yer so damned beautiful, ya know that?”

Murphy's face, flushed with a beer blush, was so close to mine that his lips tickled my own as he whispered. Every word was a fresh, just barely there kiss and it all nearly sent me over the edge. We sat with our backs against the wall in Rocco's kitchen, lost in a world of our own while Connor and our lovely host howled with drunken laughter and banged their fists on the table, frightening the poor cat that persistently tried to sneak in for some food. Murphy's forearm rested on top of my left knee, which I'd pulled up closer to my body for a place to entwine my fingers around. We craned our necks toward one another, inhaling the identical scent of whiskey on each others tongues. 

“Stop,” I mumbled against his lips. “You're drunk.” 

His fingertips trailed along my arm until he found my hand. Slowly, as if searching my face for permission, his fingers slipped between mine and our hands fell into my lap. None too soon, a quick knock came at the front door and Murphy let out a disappointed sigh. “What a cock-block,” he mumbled through barely moving lips as I stood to my feet, shaking off his hand from mine. A playful, lopsided grin grew on his face, letting me know that he wasn't really as upset as he was trying to play off. 

Being the only sober one in the place, Rocco had left me in charge of the money and constantly reminded me that it was on the counter. As I started for the crumbled dollar bills, Murphy wrapped his fingers around my ankle, holding me in place loosely. I turned and grimaced downward at him. “Do you want pizza or not?” I scolded, resisting the growing urge to run my fingers through that tangled mess of hair on his head. 

He let out a small grumble that sounded something along the lines of, “Hold on.” With a quick inhale of preparation, he grabbed for the broken office chair to his right and used it to steady himself on his feet. I held back a laugh, thinking that he must be feeling how I felt in the heels that I had chucked in a random direction the second we left the Copley Hotel. I almost wished that I had kept them, but that became a fleeting thought the second my feet throbbed in painful remembrance. 

“What are you doing?” I questioned as Murphy wrapped a rigid arm around my shoulders. Curling my own arm around his waist, I realized that he seemed so much heavier than I expected. Then again, he was probably putting all his body weight on me. 

From the corner of my eye, I watched him reach backward. “Can't have ya openin' doors by yerself,” he explained in a low slur, eyeing the handgun in his palm. “'Specially not now. C'mon now, we've got pizza waitin' fer us.”

I grabbed for the money and hobbled over to the door with Murphy hanging at my side. Just before I turned the knob, I made note of what appeared to be bullet holes that didn't quite make it through the fake wood of the door. Just what kind of place did Rocco live in? 

A greasy, pimple-faced teenager greeted me as I pulled it open, smiling widely. A set of metal braces lined his crooked teeth. “Hello,” I murmured, hoping that Murphy wouldn't start running his mouth. 

But of course, he did. 

“Jeez, man,” Murphy started, separating himself from me to lean against the door frame. “Yer just the poster boy fer horrible, single, awkward teenager years, aren't ya?”

The poor kid's jaw nearly fell to the floor, as did mine. Before I could stop myself, I pivoted sharply and delivered the backside of my hand into Murphy's stomach, causing him to let out a pained grunt. “I'm so sorry about him,” I hurried to blurt out as I turned back to the kid. Tears had welled in his eyes and his lip began to tremble slightly. “He's just drunk. He really doesn't mean it. Right, Murph?”

“Uh...”

“Right, Murphy _fucking_ MacManus?” I growled under my breath, doubling my hand into a fist near his crotch. His eyes, full of intoxicated terror, lingered on my face for a split second before he forced his head into a mechanic nodding motion. 

“The lass is right,” he admitted and reached over to place his hand on the kid's shoulder. “Apologies, truly. Jus' had a bit too much tonight, I have. Yer quite the, uh...the looker.”

For the first time since I opened the door, the kid – I eventually peeked down at his cracked name tag hanging from his shirt; Toby was his name – opened his mouth and furrowed his brows together, trying his hardest not to burst into tears. “Look, I just need twenty-five bucks,” he snapped angrily. I didn't blame him for being so mad. If I were in his shoes, I would've probably...well, to be honest, I probably would've just cried, turn tail, and booked it. “Just give me the money so I can try to have a better day.”

Rocco had told me that it was going to be $25 even. I guess he ordered two large cheese pizzas often. “Sure, of course,” I replied, curling my fingers around the cash in my hand. “Murphy, pay Toby.”

Murphy's head snapped toward me so quickly that I was almost afraid that he would tear his neck. “What?” he spat before glancing down at my hand. “But Rocc—”

“This?” I questioned, holding up the money so the both of them could see it. “This is Toby's tip for putting up with you. You're paying him. I think that's fair, don't you?”

Trying to ignore the sound of Toby stifling a laugh, Murphy huffed much like a five-year-old readying himself to throw a temper tantrum and reached back to dig in his pocket. As he muttered to himself, he pulled three tens from the leather wallet, decorated with a cross, of course. “Here,” he nearly whispered, holding the money toward Toby. 

After gently placing the pizza in my arms, Toby threw a cocky smirk toward Murphy then a pleasant smile at me. “Thank you for your business, ma'am,” he said politely, turned his back, and strolled back toward his beat-up car parked underneath a flickering streetlamp. With a final wave of his hand, his car started with a pathetic sputter and he was gone. 

“Yo!” Rocco called from back inside the apartment. “Issat fuckin' pizza here yet or what?!” 

I turned and shut the door with the heel of my foot. Murphy reached out for the pizzas, but I shimmied out of his arms length before he could touch them. “Hey, now,” I teased, sticking my tongue out at him. “Ladies first, right? Besides, I still don't think what you said to Toby was cool at all.”

Without so much as a groan of complaint, Murphy followed behind me like a starved dog. I could almost feel his gaze piercing through my body and locking on the pizza as I walked into the kitchen and settled the boxes on the counter. Surprisingly enough, both Connor and Rocco were just outside the sliding glass door peeing off the patio. Luckily, Rocco lived on the ground floor, so nobody below us would suffer an unwanted golden shower. 

Just as I inhaled to call out for them, my body jolted in surprise as a pair of hands trailed around my hips from behind, the fingers intertwining on my stomach after dancing across my skin. “Murph, what are you doing?” I demanded to know, shuddering at the touch of his chest against my back. Even though the two layers of clothing separated us, I could've sworn I felt his heavy heartbeat pounding against me. 

His left hand escaped the bind of his right. Ever so softly, his brought it up to my shoulder and pushed back my damp hair. “That kid was checkin' ya out,” he informed me, pressing his lips to my neck. 

I froze for a split second. Once, back before we moved to Boston, I'd been in this same position. Trevor had pressed me against the counter in my parent's kitchen, but his grip had been so much more forceful, more painful. He was so angry with me and over something so stupid. I'd accidentally dropped his favorite beer mug and it shattered into a billion tiny pieces. “Break my shit again,” Trevor had hissed in my ear as he tightened his fingers on the back of my neck, “and I'll break your fuckin' arms. Get that through your thick fuckin' skull, Ridley.”

That same fear that I'd felt before surged through me, causing the hair on my arms to rise. It disappeared in an instant, though, when Murphy planted a kiss on my shoulder. “I was a dick, I know,” he admitted, his voice oozing with regret. “That shit just makes me jealous.”

With my right hand, I reached backward to lace my fingers in his hair while my other rested on top of his on my stomach. “Why?” I replied, feigning a tone of obliviousness. I knew all too well the answer. There was absolutely not denying that from the second Murphy introduced himself, there had been something between us. We both had been too eager to leap into a surprise kiss, too lost in our illusions of grandeur staring at one another while thinking the other wasn't paying attention, and too comfortable holding hands and delivering playful nudges. 

All these things were forbidden with Trevor. When it came to him, all types of public affection, with the exception of a violent pull when I lagged behind him and his rowdy college friends, was like having sex in a church. I'd once tried to hold his hand in a park. He's reared back and gave me a look like I was possessed. Then, once we were alone, he'd shaken me so hard that my neck was sore the next day and demanded to know what the ever living fuck I was thinking. Murphy was so different. He was gentle, even when he was drunk, and a gigantic part of me knew that he'd never hurt me like Trevor did. 

“I really like ya, Riddles,” Murphy answered, his breath giving me the best kind of goosebumps. “I mean, I _really_ do.”

Ducking and scooting a small bit away from him, I turned my body and wrapped my arms around his neck before he had the chance to get the wrong impression and separate himself from me. As if he was caught off-guard, the muscles in his neck tensed as his body went rigid. Then, as I pressed myself closer to him, his arms returned to their rightful place around my waist. Only then did I truly realize how much taller he was than me. A good foot and a half can really make a difference. 

“That kid was probably sixteen, seventeen at the most,” I told him, offering an all-too-knowing smirk. “Don't tell me that you're scared of a little competition.” I peeked over Murphy's shoulder at Connor and Rocco. The two seemed to be finished peeing, but continued to stand there with their dicks out to the world, lost in some kind of idiotic conversation. That was fine with me. Alone time with Murphy was scarce, so I made it a point to enjoy every second I got. 

Murphy scoffed and rolled his eyes. “O'course not,” he said sharply. He craned his head downward to place his forehead on mine. “I highly doubt yer into kids anyway,” he added, his voice dropping in volume to create some kind of mouthwatering husky vibration on his lips. I tried to lock my gaze on his, but it only made my own eyes cross and create what appeared to be two of him. Suddenly, the thought that I might've been drunk crossed my mind. It was impossible; I hadn't touched any of the booze that littered the table behind Murphy. Then again, stranger things had happened. 

“Well, you sure do act like one,” I teased, dropping my stare before I became too dizzy. “I like you anyway.” What the hell was going on with me? Two weeks ago, flirting with anyone, including Trevor, was the last thing I would ever do. Now, it seemed to happen so naturally that I had to force myself to give it a second thought. It was as if the shy, scared girl from California had burst from her cocoon to reveal some kind of beautiful, confident, take-whatever-she-wants woman. 

From the top of my vision, I watched as the corners of Murphy's lips tugged into a goofy grin. “Damn it, Riddles,” he whispered, sounding almost strained. 

I lifted my head, removing my forehead from his. Deep down, I was worried that my skin was starting to become sweaty against his. Rocco's apartment lacked any kind of air conditioning and although we were nearing the end of March, the warm air was beginning to seep in through the cracked window in the living room. Murphy didn't give me much time to worry about my perspiration. Before I had time to balance my thoughts properly, his lips crashed onto mine. 

This kiss was different than the one we shared when I found out that I got the job. This one, I was sure he had been planning on doing the entire night. Roughly, but not strong enough to harm me, his hands left the curves of my hips and tangled in my hair. He pressed himself further into me, causing my butt to rustle the long forgotten pizza boxes behind me. For a long time – it could have actually been only a few seconds; I lost track of time – we just stood together, our lips clasped against once another like cogs in machinery, breathing in through our noses the scent of each other's skin. 

“Ay!” a loud voice boomed, followed by banging that caused us to jolt in surprise. Pulling away from one another and turning our attention to the source of the noise, we found Connor and Rocco pointing at us from outside. While Rocco made a gesture with his hands and mouth, insinuating the classic dick sucking motion, Connor pointed toward us, the pad of his index finger growing ghostly white against the glass. “Yer gonna contaminate the pizza!” he scolded. 

I shifted my gaze back to Murphy's face as the two boys behind him opened the door and stumbled inside. “Are you hungry?” I murmured, hoping he would say no. I loved Connor and, even though I was still furious with him for trying to sell me out, Rocco, but I wanted them to take the pizza and leave. I wanted Murphy all to myself. 

“Not fer pizza,” Murphy answered, taking my hand in his. As he pulled me toward the hall that led to the bathroom and Rocco's room, I could tell that he'd sobered up quite a bit. He didn't lean on the wall for balance or even reach out to grab onto something. I wondered if he was even the slightest bit drunk at all. 

We ended up in Rocco's room. Thinking back on it now, there could have been so many better places, but it worked just as well. We found ourselves wrapped in each other on his mattress, our hands desperately grabbing for each other's clothes. It became an unspoken law that if one piece of clothing came off, the respected piece came off on the other. This took much longer than it should have, but I couldn't keep my lips off of Murphy's. I painstakingly craved his kisses. He made me enjoy the act of connecting my face with another person's for lustful pleasure. 

“Riddles,” he mumbled against me, wrapping his fingers around my biceps. I let out a disappointed squeak of some sort and tried to fight against his force when he pulled me from him. “Ya sure ya want this?”

The fact that Murphy was even questioning it was a little heartbreaking. Of course I was sure. I wouldn't be wrapped up in Rocco's bed with him, half-naked, if I wasn't. “Murphy,” I whispered, gliding my fingertip down his bare chest and stomach, “I've barely known you for two weeks.” My finger stopped at the hem of his boxers. “You can't show me that I'm important enough to keep around more than Trevor did and then not expect something like this to happen.” Scooting backward, I curled my finger around the elastic and pulled them toward me. “I mean, I want this. I want you. Are you sure _you_ do?”

Murphy's face fell much like mine had. Without hesitation, he tackled me onto my back and buried his face in the crook of my neck. “Yes, yes, _God_ , I do,” he hissed, the feeling of his breath making me shiver. “I want ya so fuckin' bad, Ridley.” As he spoke, his hands wasted no time ridding himself of his boxers and me of my underwear and bra. Then, he froze and backed from me, his eyes scanning me up and down in the dim light shining in from a store across the street.

Trevor would do this sometimes, but not the way Murphy did. Murphy's eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store. “What?” I asked, feeling that shy girl trying to break through the new mold I had created for myself. After all, it wasn't every day that I sat in front of men naked.

A smile played on his lips, much like the one he sported when I first met him at McGinty's what seemed like years ago. “Yer just...so damned beautiful.”

Making love to Murphy was something out of this world. For the first few moments, he touched me like I was made of glass – afraid to hurt me, afraid to leave any marks, afraid that I would break down and cower at the sight of him. I handled him the same exact way – looking at his face every time I touched a new part of his body to see if that was okay, kissing him multiple times just to be sure this wasn't a dream, and curling in his embrace, trying to find protection from the world. Every second was another wave of pleasure and surprisingly enough, no pain. With Trevor, there had always been pain. It had always been about him getting off. Murphy seemed to not care about that at all. He made it all about me.

Every so often, he'd pause and ask, “This okay?” or “Does it hurt?” Naturally, my only response would be a pathetic whimper and a plead for him to keep going. I didn't want it to end. I didn't want to stop hearing his groans heavy in my ear, the sound of his panting, or the occasional, “Ah, fuck, Ridley...” 

Finally, when it was over and we were both trembling, sweaty, and exhausted, I waited and watched him, expecting him to get up, leave me in the room, and join the other two outside. Instead, he rolled onto his side behind me and fit against the curvature of my body. His fingers glided up and down my thigh and my waist as if he was tracing invisible pictures in my skin. In the silence, I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. 

“Why'd ya stay with 'im?” Murphy finally questioned, keeping his voice low. 

At first, I had no clue how to answer that, but he seemed to be giving me all the time I needed because after two or three minutes, I still hadn't said anything. “My mom asked me the same thing,” I eventually said, “just before we moved here. 'Why are you staying with that asshole, Ridley? You know he's cheating on you, right?' Of course I knew. Trevor was seeing more girls than I knew existed. I don't really know why I stayed with him. I think because deep down, I knew if I left him, he'd try to hurt me. I was just scared. I was always scared of him.”

Murphy's lips left the space near my ear and pressed between my shoulder blades, causing another army of goosebumps to rise on my arms. “Ya don't have to be scared anymore, Riddles,” he mumbled against my skin. “Never again. I promise.”


	15. The Dirty Glass

_Now._

Murphy chooses a small mom-and-pop restaurant that stays open 24/7 two blocks away from my apartment. As we walk down the empty sidewalks, he doesn't bombard me with questions or demands to know why I didn't text him back. Instead, he keeps my pace at my side, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets and half of a lit cigarette between his lips. Every time he exhales a puff of smoke through his nose or mouth, he turns away from me so it doesn't linger near my face. Always so considerate, that man. 

The restaurant is dead when we arrive. Aside from an elderly couple and the staff, Murphy and I are the only ones here. As we seat ourselves underneath a large bay window, he grabs two menus from a nearby stand and hands me one. “Same grub,” he mutters to himself, his exhausted eyes glancing over the words in front of his face. “Same owners?” 

“I think so,” I reply quietly. Something about sitting in an almost empty room makes me feel the need to whisper everything I say, even though Murphy's volume is the opposite. “Unless they kicked the bucket and I didn't know about it.” 

Looking over the menu, an overwhelming sense of anxiety slams into me. Suddenly, it feels as if people are standing at the window, their eyes locked on me with scowls of disappointment written clear as day on their faces. When I look up, though, nobody is lingering outside. Not even the couple three tables to our right have even noticed that we're here – they're too busy playing with each other's fingers and chuckling to themselves. I don't want to admit it, but I know that I'm feeling this way because of Eunice's visit. More than anything, I want to confide in Murphy and tell him everything she said, but for his safety, I can't. I don't want to risk anyone important overhearing me.

The bell above the door chimes as it opens again. Another couple strolls in, the woman carrying a baby carrier. Murphy catches my eye as I turn my head away from them. Luckily, our waitress approaches our table just in time with two glasses of ice water. She places them in front of us and fishes around in her apron for a small tablet of paper and a pen. “Are you two ready to order?” she asks. 

“I'll just have black coffee,” I tell her. The baby in the carrier begins to whimper and I find myself wishing I could rip my ears off. Crying infants are quite possibly the worst noise in the world. 

She peers down at Murphy, but he's too focused on me to give her his order. “Riddles, ya have to eat more than that,” he grumbles, his brows pulling together in a glower. 

“I'm not hungry,” I rebuke. I drag my arms from the surface of the table, wrap them around my stomach, and glance back up at our waitress. “I'm fine with just coffee, really.” Underneath my arms, my gut growls, but nothing on the menu sounds appetizing. 

Shaking his head, Murphy flashes her an intimidatingly handsome smile. “I'll have the uh, steak and over easy eggs with the hash browns. Oh, and can ya leave off the little clover, lass? It doesn't taste very good.”

Just as our waitress purses her lips together to stifle a giggle, my eyes sneak down to her name tag. Jessica clears her throat and nods slowly. “You're not supposed to eat the 'clover,' you know. Its for decoration.” 

Murphy's lingering smile falters into an embarrassed frown as his face burns crimson. “I knew that,” he lies as he immediately replaces that goofy grin. “I was just testin' ya.” I know I shouldn't be jealous, but the smile that grows on Jessica's face when he throws her a playful wink makes me want to stand, throw my water at him, and storm from the restaurant. But I don't. I bite my tongue and force a chuckle when she cracks a joke I don't quite hear before she leaves to the back. 

Cupping my hand in my opposite palm, I stare out the window beside us. The city is starting to wake up now; cars are beginning to crowd the roads, pedestrians are carelessly bumping into each other, and the surrounding buildings are showing signs of life within them. I'm absolutely dreading returning to work. I know Tracey is going to throw a fit. Usually, I'm able to handle her meltdowns that I cause, but today is different. Today, I just want to go back home, curl up in my bed, and forget these past few days ever happened. 

I'm yanked from my thoughts as the baby starts to cry. I don't even notice the scowl on my face until Murphy clears his throat after stealing a sip of my coffee that had been placed in front of me sometime during my daydreaming. “It still bothers ya, huh?” he mutters sullenly. I drag my gaze to his face to see that he's watching out the window too. 

I won't admit it to him, but his words sting. Of course it still bothers me. “It doesn't bother you?” I retort bitterly, pulling my coffee cup closer to myself. 

Murphy hesitates before letting out a long sigh. “Sometimes,” he finally answers. “I know the fact ain't ever gonna go away, but I try not to think 'bout it.” The baby's cries only seem to get louder and more annoying with every second that passes. I guess I express how irritated I am again because Murphy leans closer to me and whispers, “We can go somewhere else if ya want.”

“No,” I say sharply. “We've already ordered.” I don't mean to snap at him, but I can't help it. We both know that I'm starving possibly to death – which has always usually been the reason for my bad moods – and we both know that I'm too inveterate to admit it, especially when his food comes. Our darling waitress brings an extra plate and offers a genuine smile to me. She's sweet and amiable, but I'm too grumpy to return the gesture. After making sure we don't need anything else, she disappears into the back of the restaurant. 

I watch in silence as Murphy divides his food in half. Ever so carefully, he pushes an egg, a sloppily cut piece of ham, and a pile of hash browns onto the other plate and urges it toward me. “Don't argue,” he tells me. “Just eat.” 

My first instinct is to argue with the fact that he told me not to argue, but I'm so hungry that I'm starting to feel queasy. Without any hesitation, I stuff my mouth with the food. Jessica returns at some point during the time I'm eating to refill my coffee cup. I'm so engrossed in my food that I don't even notice her. Murphy's reserved chuckle eventually brings me back to reality. I slow my chewing and peek up at him, swallowing what's in my mouth. “What?” I murmur. 

He shakes his head and reaches for my coffee. I hurry to push it toward him. “Nothin',” he responds before taking a gulp. “So much fer not bein' hungry, hm?” 

My stomach no longer empty, my mood has improved tenfold. “Yeah,” I say, fighting back an incessant grin. “Thanks, Murph.” 

Murphy digs into his own food and lets me eat mine in peace. Every so often, we push the dwindling coffee to each other until its gone. Jessica diligently returns every time with the pot in her hand. “Do you want me to bring another cup?” she offers. We decline, saying that we don't mind sharing and we'll drink slower so she doesn't have to make as many trips back and forth. 

Watching Murphy eye my plate to make sure I have enough food, I can tell he's trying his hardest to make things better between us. I appreciate it, I really do, but something is holding me back from completely letting down the walls he had forced me to build up after he left. My gaze lingers on his left fist resting on the surface of the table. Heart pounding in my ears, I mentally count down from three and reach over to place my hand on his. From the way he instantly stops chewing and looks sideways at me, he seems confused and probably a little intrigued, but he opens his hand and allows mine to fall into his palm anyway before curling his fingers around it. We stay like this, my sweaty skin against his, eating in silence, until Jessica returns with our check. 

“I've got it,” Murphy rushes to say when he sees me reach for my debit card. Before I can object, he tosses a ten and a five onto the table and tells her to keep the change. “How much time have we got 'fore ya gotta work?” 

I grab to check my phone, but its dead. “Great,” I grumble. “I don't know, probably four hours or something like that.” 

He plops his hand on the table again and waits for me to place mine on his again. When I do, he smooths his thumb over my skin. Nobody else has ever done this the way Murphy does. He's gentle with it, almost as if he isn't actually touching me. Its comforting and always leaves me craving a deeper touch. I'd tried dating a guy once before, five years after Murphy left, who tried to do the same thing. He was too rough with it and I ended up shrinking away from his hands every time he tried. Eventually, he'd told me that I was too distant and broke things off with me. I'd been more than okay with that; he wasn't much for personal hygiene anyway. 

“What do ya even do these days?” Murphy questions me just before lifting his free hand to his mouth to cover a yawn. “I saw the old coffee shop closed down.” 

“Yeah, Tracey just didn't have enough passion to keep it running,” I admit, although that really isn't the truth. The real story is that she didn't feel safe in Boston after rumors of the Boondock Saints began to spread like wildfire, so she moved to Florida only to return a year later because she hated the humidity. “I've actually gone through a few jobs since then: a grocery store clerk, an intern for this crazy guy who ended up in rehab with a heroin addiction, and now I work at a debt collection call center. Its great.” I end my words deadpan. 

Murphy and I spend the next three hours just talking about anything and everything. He tells me about Ireland and constantly points out that I would love it there. The way he describes it to me, I don't doubt his words. His eyes light up when he talks about the hills that go on forever and all the sheep I can pet. Even though I've never been there before, I start to feel homesick. Halfway through his rant of how fantastic of a country it is, I realize I'm not feeling that way toward Ireland itself, but toward him. His words fall into a warble of sounds while I daydream about living in Ireland with him in our own shitty cottage, our own smelly sheep, and our own rambunctious children who would take too much after their father. 

“Riddles? Ya there?” Murphy asks, snapping me from my thoughts. Only then do I realize that he'd stopped talking about thirty seconds ago. 

“Yeah, sorry.” I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. The sleepiness is starting to hit me. I almost consider another cup of coffee before we leave. “Just a little tired. I should probably get to work if I want to keep being employed, you know?”

Murphy nods in understanding and stands in a tall stretch. “I'll walk ya to work,” he suggests. “I doubt Connor and Rome are awake yet.”

(-)

“Glad to see you here and not hungover,” Tracey remarks as she strolls past my cubicle. I pretend I don't hear her by picking up the phone and talking to someone who doesn't exist on the other line. She isn't trying to be spiteful, I know. As much of a hard-ass as she can be at times, Tracey absolutely does care about me and her words are nothing but the truth. Our relationship has always been an odd one. She was my first boss and the first person to make sure I was okay when I'd locked myself in my apartment for weeks after Murphy left. She's a woman of tough love who isn't afraid to threaten my job to make sure I get to work on time, but will never fire me. Absentmindedly, I munch on the doughnut she'd placed on my desk just before I arrived.

In my lap, my phone vibrates to life. Luckily, Tracey and I have the same phone and she was willing to let me borrow her charger. A new text message pops onto the screen from the number that Murphy and Connor have been using since their return to Boston. I sneak a glance over my shoulder before opening it. 

_“bar 2nite w/ me n connor n the smelly mex?”_

I nibble on the inside of my cheek as I ignore the constant flashing screen of the computer on my desk. Eventually, Shauna peeks over the top of her cubicle and lets out an irritated sigh. The flashing stops and I hear her speaking into her phone. 

After a moment of contemplation, I decide to text Murphy back. _“Yeah, McGinty's?”_

My computer flashes again with a new number I need to call. I acknowledge it this time, feeling a little guilty that Shauna has to make up for me being a worthless pile of crap today. Even as my day starts to fly by, I catch myself watching the clock. Tracey had mentioned me getting out by seven, but I feel as though it can't come fast enough. At a point, the calls seem to fade into each other, making me think that I've been on the phone non-stop for three hours until my break. 

When it finally does come, Shauna is the one who reminds me that I don't have to work for eight hours straight. “Hey, Ridley,” she says, her flaming mane creeping over the top of the carpeted wall that separates us, “you ready to take a break or do you plan on powering through the day?” 

“I didn't really bring any lunch,” I tell her, just now realizing it myself. I'm a forgetful, disorganized mess today. More than any other day, that is. 

Shauna lets out a heavy sigh, disappears, and tosses a plastic baggie over the cubicle wall. A ham and Swiss sandwich lands at my feet. “C'mon, let's go,” she gripes. “I don't want to sit here any longer than I have to.” 

I don't want to take her lunch, but as I follow her to the break room, Shauna explains that her girlfriend – she isn't actually sure if Rebecca is her girlfriend, but she likes the sound of it more than “complicated partnership” – packed her extra food today. The strange thing about Shauna is that in the four years I've known her, she'd always been willing to pick up my slack and go along with my on-the-spot stories as to why I'm late for work or still drunk without more than a snippy comment here or a dramatic sigh there. Toward anyone else, she absolutely refuses to be treated any less than a princess. I wish I'd kept a log book of how many men and women who've dumped her because she threw a fit over not being carried on a golden throne. 

“What's going on with you?” she asks as soon as we sit down at a circular table near the corner. Without realizing it, she throws a dirty look to a gathering of a few of the older women of the company huddled together at their own table on the opposite side of the room. Another thing about Shauna is the fact that she can't stand to be around the elderly, let alone work in the same building as them. 

I swallow a bite of the sandwich before I shake my head and reply, “Nothing, why?” My phone vibrates in my pocket and in a flash, I'm digging for it. 

_“no another place, the tide. need me 2 pick u up?”_

Shauna hasn't said anything, so I look up from my phone at her. She stares at me with the expression of pure boredom written clear as day on her face. “Well, for starters,” she deadpans, “your phone. You're never glued to that thing as much as you have been for the past week. Hell, most of the time you forget to even bring it to work, which by the way, Ridley, is _extremely_ inconvenient when I need to get a hold of you.” 

I want to point out that the only time Shauna ever calls me is to ask for rides home from clubs because she's too drunk to drive and when I do pick her up, she always convinces me to stay and drink with her until we both decide to call a cab. Instead, I keep that fact pushed down inside me. There's no use in starting a side argument. “Well, I--”

“I'm not done,” she interrupts and takes a sip of her Diet Coke. “Secondly, the only time you've ever been late for work or not come in at all is because you're either hungover or still drunk.” Her mouth pulls into a deep frown. “You haven't been either one of those. At least, not here.” She takes a rushed glance at the older women before leaning closer to me. “You're not on drugs, are you?”

“Shauna,” I snap in a low hiss. “Of course not! God, no, I just...” I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a few breaths before talking again. I can't just come out and tell Shauna that I've found myself wrapped up in business that should have nothing to do with me or that my FBI affiliated cousin is using me to spy on two of the most infamous men to ever set foot in Boston. “I haven't been feeling all that great lately,” I lie after a moment of contemplation. 

Her teeth nibble on her pink lip. “You're not, um...y'know, pregnant, are you?” she whispers cautiously. She knows she's treading on thin ice here. 

The sandwich lingers near my mouth. “You know you have to be having sex to get pregnant, right?” 

She shrugs, relief in knowing that she didn't offend me flushing over her now relaxed face. “Tell that to the Virgin Mary.”

(-)

The Tide is a small dive bar about a mile in the opposite direction of McGinty's. Unlike most bars in Boston, it doesn't hold the Irish vibe inside. Karaoke and extremely strong fruity drinks drag in the college kids, so as I hurry down the sidewalk toward the building, I wonder why Murphy chose this place. Neither him or Connor can sing very well, so unless Romeo has the voice of an angel, I'm confused beyond words.

After our lunch break, Shauna and I had returned to our cubicles and I had texted Murphy back, telling him to go ahead without me because I would probably be working a little late. As a thank you to Shauna, I'd told her to go home early to spend time with Rebecca. Two hours after my usual shift, Tracey had decided to let me free as well and I wasted no time practically sprinting from the building toward The Tide. 

When I arrive, the boys are already trashed. Murphy waves to me from the bar and tries to shout my name over the girl shrieking on stage. Her group of friends cheers her name, whistles, and records her on their phones. Near the stage, a DJ booth is set up, complete with its own dancing college kid trying to make his big break in the music industry. I'm pulled into a tight hug from Connor when I'm finally close enough to the boys. He reeks of beer and sweat. 

“Why here?” I yell into his ear. 

“Who's queer?!” he yells back.

Rolling my eyes, I back from him and try Murphy. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I get as close as possible to his ear. “Why did you pick this place?!” I ask. 

Murphy places his drink on the bar and snakes his arms around my waist, pulling me closer to him. “Romeo wanted to pick up on the lasses!” he shouts, jutting his chin toward the stage. I turn my head to find Romeo trying to blend in with the girl's friends, dancing, pumping his fists into the air in rhythm of the song, and flashing wide smiles to anyone with a vagina. “Whatdya want to drink?!” Murphy asks, reaching back with his right arm to grab his glass while keeping a tight hold on me with his left. “Try this!” 

He nearly shoves the glass of yellow liquid into my mouth. I can smell ginger and as soon as it hits my mouth through the stir straw, I hand it back to Murphy and force it down my throat. “That's, uh, different,” I say, trying to rid myself of the overwhelming taste of peach, ginger, and rum on my tongue. It doesn't seem like something that he would normally drink, so I wouldn't be surprised if a drunk girl bought it for him. 

I order my usual whiskey sour from the bar and before I know it, I'm on the same level as Murphy, Connor, and Romeo. None of the karaoke singers are so good that I'm speechless, but I dance along to every song anyway. As soon as midnight hits, a body smaller than mine latches onto me. A blur of flaming red hair fills my vision before I realize its Shauna, drunker than I am and having the time of her life, apparently. I don't see Rebecca, so I assume they've gotten into a fight and my friend stormed out to come here. 

Eventually, Romeo steals her away and replaces her with Murphy. I can tell he's trying to sober up because Connor refuses to. One of them has to be responsible, I guess. As we dance together, I lose my balance more often than I'd like, but he catches me every time. A few times, his lips brush mine as he tries to go in for kisses, but I dodge him sloppily and either spill my drink on the floor or on myself. 

When the room begins to spin, I decide that I need to go home, or at least back to Murphy's bed in the speakeasy above McGinty's. I grab onto Murphy's arms and shout into his face, “I need to go to bed!” 

He shakes his head, a devious smile planted on his face. At first, I don't realize what's going on. He grabs my hand and leads me to what I think is the door, but is truly the stage. On a higher surface, I'm able to see just how packed the bar is. In the corner, Shauna is all over Romeo, her tongue shoved down his throat and his hands nearly ripping off her clothes. The crowd in front of us stares wide-eyed like we're a couple of mystical creatures on display.

“We have Murphy and Ridley on stage!” the DJ announces into his headset. A roar of clapping and cheers fills the bar. My heart drops as Murphy shoves a small microphone into my hands and _The Dirty Glass_ by the Dropkick Murphys begins to play. A feeling of betrayal settles over me at the fact that Murphy chose this song. I throw him a pathetic, pleading look, but he's too wrapped up in making sure his own microphone is on to notice me. 

This little stunt is forcing me to sober up quickly, but I don't want to make an idiot of myself in front of all these people, even though they're probably too shitfaced to remember in the morning. So, instead of running from this, I bring the piece of metal to my face and pretend I'm just singing in the shower. _“Murphy, Murphy, darling dear,”_ I sing. I know I'm likely off-key, but I try not to care. _“I long for you now night day. Your pain was my pleasure, your sorrow my joy. I feel now I've lost you to health and good cheer.”_

Murphy seems more then ecstatic that I'm actually going along with this crap. Part me of almost thinks that this is some sort of revenge for not kissing him or falling in love with him all over again the second he showed up on my doorstep. His own rendition of the song confirms that I'm right in thinking this. _“Ridley, when I met ya, I was five years too young,”_ he sings, replacing the name “Darcy” with my own. My mouth nearly drops to the floor. _“A boy beyond his age or so I'd tell someone!”_

Anger rises in me as the song continues. From the corner of my eye, I watch Connor sneak another microphone from the DJ's desk, who dances along to our voices, not realizing that this is a personal attack. 

_“Ya shut me off and ya showed me the door!”_ Murphy shouts, no longer quite singing but stating a fact. I refuse to let him win this, to embarrass me like this. 

_“But you always crawling came back, begging me for more! I showed you kindness, a stool, and a tab!”_ I yell as I ignore the screeching of the feedback through the speakers. Without realizing it, Murphy and I had inched too close to each other and back away immediately. 

He rolls his eyes, which are filling with tears. I can't tell if he's actually upset or if the booze is making him more emotional than usual. _“Then ya poured me my pain in a dirty glass!”_

Connor, stumbling and lost in his own haze of blissful alcohol, chimes in now. Like his brother, he doesn't sing. Rather, he points an accusing finger at me from the floor and states, _“Yeah! Ya left 'im bloody, battered, penniless, and poor!”_ I don't think Connor realizes what Murphy is doing or why he's doing it, but I feel ganged up on. Everything that I was beginning to think about my former lover, that maybe he isn't the horrible person I thought and maybe we could work something out, goes down the drain. Once this song is over, if I ever hear his name again or see his face, it'll be too soon. 

_“Ridley, Ridley, darlin' dear, ya left me dyin', cryin' there! In whiskey, gin, and pints of beer! I fell for ya, my darlin' dear!”_ Murphy continues, trying to copy his brother by pointing a wavering finger in my face. I hurry to slap it away and push him from me. 

_“You weren't the first to court me, mister. You won't be the last,”_ I retort, my voice growing meeker with every word that flies from my mouth. As a last-ditch effort, I flip him the bird before reaching off stage toward one of the college girls that I'd made friends with. She hands me my fifth or sixth whiskey sour and I throw it back as quickly as possible. Something tells me that I'm going to fight Murphy tonight, although I'm certain he won't fight back. Then again, he's been full of surprises in the past few hours that I feel like I don't know him anymore. 

Murphy throws his head back and barks a short laugh into his microphone. _“Oh, I'm sure I wasn't, honey! I know all 'bout yer past!”_

I'm so furious that I miss my next part because I'm too busy staring Murphy down in a fit of body trembles. While I internally debate on starting a fight right now and getting blacklisted from The Tide forever, or waiting until we leave, Connor belts into his microphone, _“Yeah! Ya got 'im high, but ya left 'im low!”_

My body reacts on its own. I chuck my empty glass at his head, but luckily he moves out of the way at the last minute and it shatters against the wall behind him. _“Mind your own business, boy! How was I to know that he was just a fiend and a no-good cheat?!”_

_“Well, its all in the past,_ bitch, _cuz now I've got it beat!”_ Murphy finishes. The look of realization flashes across his face in an instant. The crowd lets out a long “oooohhhh” before clapping like I'm the one who completely ruined his life instead of the other way around.

I can't take it anymore. I drop the microphone and jump off the stage, pushing my way through the sea of bodies before me as they continue to sing along to the chorus with Connor, _“Ridley, Ridley, darlin' dear, you left me dyin', cryin', here...”_ Listening to Murphy shout my name from behind me seems never-ending, but once I'm finally outside in the cold night air, I break out into a full sprint toward my apartment. Heavy footfalls follow, aided with Murphy's voice telling me to stop. This only fuels me. 

Unfortunately, in my drunken stupor, I find myself in an alley with no way out but the way I came – the way Murphy is standing. “Ridley, please,” he whispers between ragged breathing. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I didn't think--”

I explode like a volcano. “No, you fucking didn't, Murphy!” I scream, sending a flock of birds flying in a panic from the rooftop to my right. “You never fucking think! What were you even expecting by doing that?! Some fucking dumb Broadway shit that makes everything better?!” My throat feels scratchy from the volume and the mucous that's building up in my nose. I wipe at my tears as I back away from Murphy's advancing figure. 

“I just thought ya liked the song! Ya always liked that song!” he defends. His feet come to a slow stop when he notices that I'm distancing myself from him. “I didn't mean anything by it!”

I'm not thinking when I grab for an empty vodka bottle at my feet and throw it at him. “FUCK YOU, MURPHY!” I shriek. I'm not even sure if the bottle hits him or not because as soon as it leaves my hand, I cover my face with my palms and let out a choking sob. As his arms wrap around me, he mumbles something in my ear, but my own noises drown him out. I'm too exhausted, mentally and physically, to push him from me. I want him to leave again and never come back, but at the same time, I just want to die. 

Murphy pulls me back to reality by framing my tear-soaked cheeks with his hands. His lips crash hard onto mine, sending my stomach into a series of violent flips. “I love ya,” he tells me when he pulls away. “And I'm so fuckin' sorry – fer everything. Fer leavin' ya, fer the song, fer just thinkin' that everythin' would be just the way it was when I came back. I'm just fuckin' sorry, Ridley.” He places his forehead on mine and only now do I realize that he's crying too. A tear falls from his face and lands on my left boob. “I love ya and I'm sorry.” 

In the entire time that I've known him, I've only seen Murphy ever cry twice before. Once, when we lost the baby. The second time was when we lost Rocco. This time, I can only assume its because he thinks he's lost me. I know that drunk or not, Murphy only cries when he's so passionate about being left behind by someone that he loves that he can't express his emotions in any other way. 

“Maybe this is just some dumb Broadway shit,” I say as I reach up to wipe at his tears with my thumbs. I press myself closer to him, my lips forming around his as a content sigh escapes through my nose. When I pull away, I offer a soft, trembling smile. “I love you, Murphy. I really fucking do.”


	16. A Parent's Love

_Then._

The next two and a half months came quietly and oddly enough, peacefully. While Murphy, Connor, and Rocco – he had decided to be their unofficial third twin – carried on their highly illegal business of putting down criminals, I continued my life at the coffee shop. Days dragged on in blurs of boredom and fear; I spent my days lifelessly watching the clock and my nights anxiously watching the news. Someday, I just knew, I would see their faces on the screen with the announcement that the Boondock Saints had finally been caught. 

Word spread instantaneously of the duo murderers. Rocco's contribution seemed to go unnoticed with the reports. I could've guessed only two reasons for this: one, he had made up excuses to stay behind in the car because he was scared or two, he'd stood idly by while the brothers did all the dirty work. I never thought to bring it up around him, though. When the four of us were together, we hardly talked about their secret career. 

It felt as if I couldn't go a day without hearing low whispers of, “Did you see the news last night? Another murder, just right down the street. That old child molester this time.” or, “I wonder when they're going to come kicking my door down? Maybe I should talk to the wife about moving.” Gritting my teeth and baring false smiles while hearing the Boston folk speak of the boys as if they were some sort of plague became the most difficult part of my life. So many times I'd almost slipped up and yelled that if people kept to themselves and didn't break any laws, the Saints wouldn't come looking for them. Doing that, though, would mean police interaction, questioning, and possible jail time for association. I couldn't subject myself to that.

Under the playful teasing of Connor and Rocco, Murphy and I seemed to form a relationship. Being only two months into it, my doubts popped up every so often that he would make a complete 180 and turn into another Trevor. But as the days passed and beatings never happened, that doubt diminished into just a tiny little voice in the back of my head that I could easily block out. 

He was perfect in every sense of the word. There was no awkward moments between us; everything from the long, passionate kisses to the small nudges as we passed each other seemed to happen so naturally. Although he was often over dramatic and poignant with his brother, he always seemed so calm around me, knowing I was easily riled. When I had bad days at the coffee shop, Murphy was always there to lend an ear or a shoulder to cry on. He was always patient with me; never rushing me to finish my food or to keep pace at his side. He waited, and that was something I would forever be more than grateful for. 

“Its been three months, Riddles,” Murphy urged one blisteringly hot day. I moved about my apartment hastily, picking up empty beer bottles from the night before. He stayed at my side, grabbing them from my hand at every chance he got. “They're probably worried 'bout ya. Just one call.”

I sighed in frustration as Murphy held the phone toward me. “They don't want to hear from me, Murphy. I know they're still mad.”

“They're yer _parents._ They love ya. C'mon, please? Fer me?”

I stared Murphy down, a fit of butterflies erupting in my stomach. For the past week, he had been trying to get me to call my parents, to check in on them, to tell them that I'm alive and okay. He was certain that they'd watched the news of all the murders in Boston, but I argued that it only aired on the local channels. Still, he stood his ground and refused to leave me alone about it. I knew as long as we were both still alive, he would bug me every second he got about it. 

“Fine,” I snapped, yanking the phone from his hand. My palms instantly began to sweat at the thought of hearing my mom's cackling laugh or my dad's scratchy voice again. What the hell was I even going to say to them? When I looked down at the screen, I saw that Murphy had already dialed the number from the piece of paper I had taped to my fridge.

After about twenty seconds of trying to calm my breathing down, I pressed the green button and brought the phone to my ear. My parents didn't have an answering machine, so I heard the ringing over and over again until it felt as though it had always been in my head. Finally, after I lost count of how many rings I'd sat through, I decided that they weren't home. Relief washed over me.

“Hello?”

Dad's voice felt like a fist to the gut. My throat tightened painfully, my eyes instantly filled with tears, and my knees began to quiver. “Dad?” I whispered, allowing Murphy to lead me over to the couch. He wrapped an arm around my waist, gently pulling me down into a crouching position. 

“Ridley?!” came my dad's frantic reply. “Oh my God, Ridley, is that you?!” I could hear the tremble in his words. Somewhere in the background, my mom's voice shrieked my name, followed by the click of speakerphone on their end. 

“RIDLEY!” Mom cried loudly. I wouldn't have been surprised if her mouth was on the speaker. “Are you okay?! Are you hurt?! Do you need money?!” 

A hysterical laugh forced its way through my lips as I wiped my cheeks of the tears. Even after three months of not talking, the first thing my mom worried about was my safety. “I'm okay,” I said after taking a moment to pull myself together. Beside me, Murphy smoothed out my hair with his fingers. “I don't need money. I just...wanted to call and say hi.” Another sob caught in my throat. “And that I'm sorry,” I added thickly. “And that Trevor is dead, but I'm not alone, and I have so many new friends and a job and I miss you guys.” There was so much more I wanted to say, but my voice eventually dropped to a strange moaning noise. 

“Oh, Ridley,” Mom whispered, her own voice filled with tears. “We've been worried sick about you. When we heard about all the killings in Boston, you were our first thought.” 

She was speaking loud enough for Murphy to hear. From the corner of my eye, I saw him smile to himself, shake his head, and mouth a silent, “Told ya so.” I smacked his thigh with the back of my hand lightly. 

“We heard about Trevor from his parents,” Dad continued. I figured Mom was too emotional to say anything more for the moment. “We're sorry to hear about your loss, honey.” There was a certain hint of indifference in his voice that told me that he didn't really care about Trevor's death; just how I was reacting to it. “How're you holding up?”

“I-I'm okay,” I replied, trying to force some kind of concern into my voice. “I met someone new.” I turned my head to Murphy and cracked a wavering smile. “You're really going to like him, Dad. He's an Irishman.” 

Dad's thunderous laugh jolted me in surprise. I'd nearly forgotten how loud it was. “Irish, you say?” he answered. “Well, you tell him that he still isn't going to drink me under the table.” 

My parents and I spent the next three hours catching up. Murphy eventually kissed my head and whispered that he'd be back, left, and returned an hour later with a box of take out Chinese. Instead of turning on my TV while eating, he simply watched me pace back and forth, a goofy grin planted on his face. I didn't want to hear the “I told you so” speech, so I stayed on the phone as long as possible. 

I caught up my parents on nearly everything: my new job, my police interrogation after Trevor's death, my apartment. The only thing I left out as that I was dating an infamous criminal-killer. Even though I was sure it was something that would come up somewhere down the road, I decided it best to avoid that subject for as long as possible. Their questions about him, however, seemed to be never-ending. What was his name? How old was he? What did he look like? What did he drive? What were his hobbies? The list went on and on.

When I finally checked my clock and saw that it was nearing eight o'clock, I made sure my parents wrote down my number on their end. “Call me whenever you want, okay?” I told them. “I don't even care if I'm working. I'll still answer.” 

“Same goes for you, sweetie,” Mom replied. Speaking to her had become easier as the phone call went on. Neither of us cried at a certain point. Rather, our conversation was filled with random bouts of laughter. 

“Oh, and, um...one more thing,” I added, my eyes sweeping over to the half-built crib in the corner. Just as it did before I called them, my heart began to pound against my chest. My gaze drifted down to my stomach, at the teeny, tiniest little bump just barely poking out from my shirt. “You're going to be grandparents.” 

Murphy and I had found out about my pregnancy only a week before. His reaction had been completely different from mine. I sat still, trying to process the information while fear and nervousness swirled about my gut. Murphy, on the other hand, nearly broke the chair he had been sitting in. He'd jumped to his feet, let out something that sounded like a victory yell, and pulled the doctor's assistant into a tight hug. My shock had eventually worn off and had been replaced with excitement. 

When we told Connor, Rocco, and Doc the news, they reacted much the same as Murphy. Connor demanded that the baby be named after him even if it came out a girl, Rocco exclaimed how eager he was to have a little “diaper-shitter” running around everywhere (although, I'm sure most of what he said was sarcasm), and Doc teared up, blew his nose into a nearby napkin, and excused himself from behind the bar. The old man came to us the next day with a giant box and explained that it was a crib. “No-Not the most ex-expensive one, b-but it'll work. _Fuck! Ass!_ ” he had told us.

After another ten minutes of listening to my parents cry into the phone with relief that the father wasn't Trevor (that was the first follow-up statement I offered), we said our goodbyes and hung up. With a long sigh of relief, I lifted my head to find Murphy staring at me from the hallway, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and a cocky smirk on his face. “I take it they like me then?” he said. 

I stood from the couch in a high stretch and made my way over to him. Closing the space between us, I wrapped my arms around his neck and pecked him lightly on his cheek. “They love you already,” I reassured him. “And so do I.”

(-)

Early the next morning, my alarm clock blared loud enough to wake Murphy and I up with a start, as well as the two men sleeping in my living room. It seemed as though my apartment had become the new gathering place, seeing as the police were well aware of where the twins used to live. And after Rocco's little stunt of shooting up The Lakeview Lunch three months ago, we couldn't just go back to his apartment like nothing ever happened. So, mostly unwillingly, I found myself as the new den mother to three full-grown men who often acted like 15-year-old boys.

“Mm, Riddles, turn the damned thing off,” Murphy mumbled through my pillow. Unfortunately, I was already on my way to the bathroom to complete my morning ritual of puking everything I had in me into the toilet. After a few moments of shuffling from the bedroom, he joined me on the cold floor. Bags of exhaustion underneath his eyes and a trail of drool crusted to the side of his mouth, he held my hair back while I retched loudly, probably pissing off the other two men. 

Mornings were the absolute worst, but after the first few hours were over and I was on my way to work, I felt as though I could actually go through with this pregnancy. The walk to the coffee shop usually took me only about fifteen minutes, but this particular morning didn't pan out like all the others. 

“Miss Gillespie,” the cream-suit wearing man greeted with a short nod of his head. My feet came to a slow halt, as did his. The man wore an overly friendly smile to the point of making me feel more than uncomfortable. 

“Hello,” I answered. 

“You must not remember me,” he said with a light chuckle. “Agent Smecker, from the police department. We talked about your boyfriend's murder a while back.” 

My first instinct was to shout that I didn't know anything about anyone, turn around, and sprint back to my apartment, but that would be way too obvious. “Oh, that's right,” I replied, a nervous grin playing on my lips. “What can I do for you?”

“Just popping by to say hello,” Smecker said as he lifted his shoulders in a bored shrug. “Any new boyfriend deaths on your side?”

His question made me flinch and I found myself instantly hoping that he didn't see it. What exactly did he mean by that? Did anymore of my boyfriends die? Has my boyfriend killed anyone? Was it a joke, or was he serious? Assuming the former, I laugh out a quick giggle. “Not that I know of,” I retorted. “I'll let you know, though.” 

Smecker didn't even crack a grin at my attempt of a joke of my own. “Please do,” he said gravely. “If you have any hints of anything that has been going on in this town, I need to know.” He approached me slowly and placed his hand heavy on my shoulder. His worn eyes pierced into mine just before trailing downward. “I trust you'll do the right thing. You're positively glowing, by the way.”

Without another word, Smecker continued past me as if I was never even there, the smell of cigarettes and whiskey lingering around me even long after he'd gone.

(-)

That night, when I'd returned home from a hellish day at work, I found my apartment empty. A pain of loneliness tinged in my gut. I dumped my purse onto the couch and nestled myself onto the cushions. Just behind my left eye, a headache pounded away at my skull. I'd had it all day, but painkillers were out of the question, as well as coffee, which normally did the trick.

My gaze settled on the half finished crib. The twins and Rocco had started to put it together, but began to argue about some stupid cartoon I'd never heard of before and ended up forgetting about the crib thanks to a wrestling match they'd engaged in. The image of the three yelling at each other brought a soft smile to my lips, but the sound of a muted thump from my bedroom quickly diminished it. 

Trying to keep my breathing under control, I searched frantically for my phone in my purse. The thumping continued, like something was banging my wall. Deciding that I must've left my phone at work, I hissed a long string of curses to myself. Knees shaking and my mouth drying with every breath, I stood from the couch and hurried to the kitchen, grabbing the most intimidatingly sharp knife I could find. 

Like a cat stalking its prey, I edged my way along the dark hallway, trying my hardest not to scream at every noise whatever was in my bedroom was making. How it got in there was beyond me. I'd checked the rooms when I got home for the boys. Unless they could become invisible and walk through walls, I knew it wasn't them. 

When I approached the door, I didn't even have time to dramatically kick it open. The knob turned and the door was yanked open. Before I knew it, I'd been pinned against the wall by my throat. Whoever was in front of me punched my wrist repeatedly until I dropped the knife. Letting out a hoarse groan for air, I kicked my legs frantically, trying to hit him in the groin. He stood too far from me, though, and his grip was too tight to pry from my neck. 

“Where are they?” he asked, his voice set in a dead monotone. I squinted through my blurred vision into a pair of sunglasses. My reflection stared back at me, my eyes screaming for help. 

Before I could answer, a gunshot rang through my ears. The hand around my throat disappeared and I fell to the floor, gasping rapidly for air. “Ridley!” Rocco's voice called. I turned my head to look his direction, but only saw him scuffling with the trench coat wearing man who had attacked me. Another gunshot echoed in my apartment and a glass on my counter shattered before the man slipped away from Rocco's grasp. “Fuck! FUCK!” my friend shouted in anger. 

“Rocco...” My stomach filled with the sensation of fire, followed by a sharp, almost unbearable pain. “Rocco.”

“Ridley, who the fuck – God dammit, what the fuck?!” He was so wrapped up in his tantrum, throwing his hands about and kicking my furniture. 

My fingers trembling, I shoved my hand down the front of my pants, my lunch from earlier nearly coming up at the warm, wet liquid on my skin. I didn't want to look at it, but I had to. As soon as I saw the blood on my fingertips, I knew. 

“Rocco, please,” I begged, fighting off the frenzied scream building up in my throat, “take me to the hospital. I think I lost the baby.”


	17. Judas Kiss

_Now._

Three heavy, consecutive knocks at my front door stir me awake. Beside me in all his naked glory, Murphy's cerulean eyes flutter drowsily for a moment. He sighs into his pillow, forms himself to the curvature of my body, and drifts off once more. The second set of knocks don't faze him, but I'm already wide awake, my heart pounding against my chest. 

My first instinct when I ever so carefully pry myself from Murphy's arm is to grab for my gun stashed away behind the picture of my parents on their wedding day on my dresser. Instead, I fish around the haphazard piles of clothes strewn across my room for something to cover myself with. Everything seems dirty, so I settle with the tank top I wore the night before and Murphy's stained pants, which still smell of the booze that had been spilled on it. I pull my hair into a ponytail, snatch the gun, and head for the door.

The knocks don't cease as I approach it. Peeking through the peephole, I watch a man, black hair shaved into a terrible flattop and eyes matching the same hue, twist his neck side to side, watching to see if anyone else is staring at him the same way I am. Everything about him seems dark, even his skin, though its a shade similar to Romeo's. A five o'clock shadow his apparent on his face, even in the morning. His hands are clasped behind his back rigidly until he takes a quick second to rap at my door again. The other hand remains out of my sight. Either he has a weapon or he's going to try to sell me cookies. The former seems more realistic. 

“Go away,” I whisper against the door. He doesn't react to my words if he can hear them. “I don't want to shoot you.” 

Behind me, the bedroom door clicks open. “Riddles?” Murphy mumbles, his voice full of sleep. “The hell--”

I turn toward him and immediately bring my pointer finger to my lips, silently telling him to shut the fuck up. His eyes drift toward my gun and in the blink of an eye, his naked body is back in my room, searching for his own. Knowing that he's awake and armed relieves me only a small bit. 

Another three knocks and I'm watching the man again. “Miss...” He takes a moment to look at something written on his arm. “...Gillespie?” he calls in a thick Italian accent, sending shivers down my back. He doesn't accidentally have the wrong apartment and that itself makes me uncomfortable. I've never seen him in my entire life, so someone else must've sent him. 

“Who is it?” Murphy hisses sharply. I look back at him, both grateful and disappointed that he's clothed now in nothing but a crimson pair of boxers. He bends his knees slightly in a modest crouch, his fingers curled firmly around his gun. I shake my head, mouthing that I don't know. “Open the door and get behind it,” he orders. 

Feet sweating and hands trembling, I form my palm around the knob. Murphy counts down from three, I retch the door open, and he lifts his gun. From behind the door, I watch him scurry out of the apartment. “See him?” I ask, poking my head out. Murphy shoots me a warning glare to get back into the living room, but I refuse to listen to him. “I swear, there was someone here...” 

Nobody is standing on the concrete walkway between my door and the door that belongs to the elderly couple who lives across from me. Come to think of it, the last time I saw the two must've been well over a year ago. Hoping they hadn't died, I lift my own gun and swiftly turn in a circle, lifting it toward the light fixture every time I swoop over Murphy. 

“I believe ya,” Murphy tells me. “I heard the knocks. Ya ain't goin' crazy just yet.” 

We split off, each heading down the set of stairs opposite of each other. Murphy's set leads toward another building while mine places me on the narrow path to the street. Feeling the hot rush of embarrassment as a passerby makes a comment about my boobs (“Shit, is it a tit nipply out here or are you just happy to see me?”), I do my best to ignore him and search the sidewalks for any sign of the man. Its almost as if he was never there in the first place, standing just inches away from me, separated by only a door, probably not offering to sell me cookies. 

“Anythin'?” Murphy asks as he jogs up behind me. 

“No,” I answer. Before I can say anything else, a cab catches my eye. From the back seat, the man is staring at me as it drives past. Just as he leaves my range of vision, I watch him grin maniacally, turn his head away, and roll up the window. 

Grabbing for Murphy's hand, I drag him back inside my apartment. I knew coming back here last night was a bad idea, but at the time, I had so many emotions going through me, as well as an insanely strong sexual urge to get his clothes off as quickly as possible. Now, because I was so careless, whoever that man is knows where I live and who I'm with. All this is just the icing on top of the shit cake that my cousin had delivered to me. 

As soon as Eunice's face pops into my mind, her words follow suit. _“I don't think anyone realizes just how much danger you could be in.”_ She'd known something like this was going to happen, that someone was going to eventually come looking for me. Then again, maybe I'm just over thinking all this. Maybe that man had absolutely nothing to do with anything relating to the boys. I scoff to myself. The second I'm able to make myself believe something like that is the second I sprout wings like the angel I am and take flight. 

The second we're back behind closed doors, Murphy inhales to say something, but is cut off by the chime of the phone that he left on my counter last night. He doesn't waste any time pressing it to his ear and mumbling a soft, _“Dia dhuit?”_ I can hear the voice on the other end of the line. It sounds like Connor, but I can't be too sure. Whoever it is chats away in a language I don't understand, but Murphy surely does. They must be cautious about the lines being tapped or something. _“Bí ann go luath.”_ At that, he hangs up and looks at me. “Mind givin' me my pants back? I've got somewhere to be.” 

“Where are you going?” Although I don't mean for them to, my words come out harsh and defensive. 

He's hesitant about giving me an answer. “Oh, um, my brother needs somethin',” he mumbles, his gaze drifting away from mine. “Rome's got 'imself in a bit of a bad spot.” 

“Can I come?”

“Um, no.” 

I tap my gun on my thigh irately. “Why not?” I demand to know. “You're just going to leave me here alone with some guy stalking my apartment?” 

Murphy gives me a look of desperation like I've got him cornered. “Riddles, yer strong and ya know what yer doin'. Ya don't need me hoverin' over ya,” he sincerely tells me. His words flatter me as well as irritate me further. I absolutely hate not knowing things. “I'll call ya, yeah?” Snaking an arm around my waist, he drops his head downward to kiss me. I can still taste the whiskey on his lips from last night. 

I break our kiss earlier than he would like; he continues to lean into me as I move away. “Okay,” I mutter. “Have fun, uh, doing whatever.” 

Murphy offers a gentle smile and returns to my room for the rest of his clothes. He plants one more kiss on the top of my head as he passes me on his way out. “I love ya,” he says against my hair. 

“I love you,” I answer. Just as he pulls himself from me and heads for the door, I take hold of his arm. “Forgetting your pants?” 

“Ya can keep 'em,” he replies with a sultry wink. “Think of it as a souvenir of our vacation in yer bed.”

(-)

Days off from work are supposed to be filled with rest and relaxation, early morning reading and coffee, afternoon sex and wine with dinner. I, however, find myself pacing my apartment, filled with anxious tenancies to scold myself for not putting a tracking device under Murphy's skin. I'm more worried for his safety than my own. Nothing good can come of him being so secretive of his plans.

As I go from sitting on my couch, flipping through the channels on my TV for any sign of killings in Boston, to peeking out the window to see if Murphy is on his way back up the stairs to greet me with another bout of kisses and a vacation back to my bed, I resist the urge to grab my phone and call him. I don't want to seem clingy, but I want to know if he's alive. Telling myself those are two completely different things, I make myself a fresh pot of coffee, tracing the figure of my gun out of the corner of my eye. I make it a point to leave it on my counter near the front door, just in case my shady visitor decides to drop by again. 

My coffee maker hisses with scalding hot water, sending a cloud of steam upward. My bottom lip is sore from my teeth grazing over it so often, but I can't keep myself from doing it. I finally give in and dig into my pockets for my phone. Murphy answers on the fourth ring. 

“Riddles?” he says breathlessly. I can hear shouting in the background. 

“Murph? Are you okay?” 

“Oh, yeah,” he tells me in a way that is obvious he's not okay. “Shut the fuck up. Sorry, Riddles, I don't mean ya. Yeah, but uh, everythin's great. Havin' a great day. Connor says hi. _I said shut the fuck up!_ ”

I stand frozen, half way in the process of reaching for a coffee mug, to listen to the grunts of struggle coming from whoever Murphy is telling to shut up. I don't recognize the voice. Instead of being worried for the safety of the twins and Romeo, I'm suddenly worried for the extra person. “Who are you killing?” I ask as if I'm asking how his day at work was. 

Murphy lets out a loud guffaw into the phone. “Nobody yet,” he answers casually. 

From his end of the phone, I hear Romeo's voice. He must not know that I can hear him, because he yells as if he's talking to someone who uses an aid to hear. “...my uncle's restaurant tonight! Ya like Mexican food, ya fat bastard?!” he shouts just before making a noise that sounds as if someone has just punched him in the gut. 

“Keep yer fuckin' voice down!” Connor bellows.

I imagine a light bulb coming to life above my head like in the old cartoons I used to watch as a kid when the characters came to realize something. “Sounds like you're having fun,” I say to Murphy in a rush. “Looks like Shauna's calling. I have to go. Love you, bye!” 

Hanging up before he has the chance to say anything else to me, I search my contacts like my life depends on it. As I run through my apartment like a human tornado, I hiss under my breath, begging her to answer the damn phone. It nearly goes to her voice mail before she answers. “Eunice Bloom,” she says in her “I'm better than you” voice. Part of me regrets the calls just because I have to listen to her talk now. 

“Its me,” I breathe into my cell as I pull on a pair of clean pants I'd found underneath all the dirty ones which, technically I guess, makes them dirty, too. “I think the Saints might need help, I don't know for sure.”

“Where and when?” she demands, her voice tight with urgency. 

“The Silver Peso tonight.”

I mean to tell her about the man who showed up at my door earlier, but she cuts me off before I can. “We're going early,” she informs me. “I'm on my way to pick you up. Be ready.” 

Click.

I lower my phone, grimacing at it as I watch the screen turn black. “Fuckin' rude,” I mutter as I head for the bathroom. “Can't even say fuckin' bye to your own cousin.”

(-)

Eunice keeps her eyes on the road as she weaves in and out of traffic. Her driving makes me panic more than the thought of the boys actually being in trouble; I keep a firm hold of the “oh shit” handle just above the window to my right and press the invisible break with my foot whenever she comes too close to another car's bumper. To add salt to the wound, the second her phone rings, she brings it to her ear and suddenly, I'm having flashbacks of my father's truck stuck in a muddy ditch.

“How do, David?” Eunice greets. My head whips toward her at the sound of his name. As he talks in a low hush to her, she chomps away annoyingly at her gum. “Already on my way, honey. My baby cousin here already knew all about their little supper.”

“...a bodyguard?”

She lets out a cutesy giggle. “No, thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye, now.”

I can't help stare at her contemptuously as she pockets her phone. She catches my eye for half a second before returning her gaze to the road. “You're fucking Greenly?” I accuse in disgust. “I knew you had bad taste in men, but for shit's sake, Eunice... _Greenly?_ ” 

“We're not fucking,” she defends, saying the last word like she's never said it before in her life. “Greenly's just a bit taken by me. Can't say I blame him.” 

I fake a retching noise and roll my eyes. 

The Silver Peso is empty when we arrive. Not a single car is in the parking lot, the lights are off, and the doors and windows are locked. Eunice parks down the street and as we practically jog to the building, I check the time on my phone. Not entirely knowing when the boys were going to show up here, I stick as close to my cousin as I can. We circle around the back. Eunice seems to already know where the delivery door is; she heads straight for it and takes a paperclip from her pocket. 

“You came prepared,” I tell her sarcastically, folding my arms over my chest and keeping watch for anyone that may see us. 

“Always do, baby cousin,” she retorts. In a few short seconds, the door is open and she's dragging me inside. “All right, we're going to need a place to hide out until all the good stuff starts happening.”

Trying to avoid the clutter of pots, pans, and empty cardboard boxes, we search the storage room for any place that would serve as good hiding spots. I eventually find a shelf placed away in the very back, filled with gigantic bags of uncooked rice. When I turn to tell Eunice about it, I find that she's already gone in her own place. Male voices echo from the front of the restaurant. I hurry to yank the bags from the shelves and create something resembling a fort around the corner. Being extra careful of the gun on my hip, I nestle myself inside and pray to whatever higher being may exist that I've concealed myself completely.

Heavy footsteps thump closer to the storage room and from a tiny slit between two bags, I can see someone peek in with a flashlight. It shines over my eye a few times. I cover my mouth with my hands to quiet my rapid breathing and try to ignore the sweat forming between my boobs and on my back. 

“Clear!” the man shouts. I sigh in relief when I realize that its Murphy. “Ay, Romeo, whip me up some salsa, would ya?! I'm fuckin' starvin'!” 

“Racist asshole!” 

Every ounce of fear leaves my body. If its just the boys here, then my chances of dying are much slimmer. In my pocket, my phone vibrates four times. Moving delicately, I struggle to dig it out. Two text messages. One from Eunice and the other from Murphy. I read his first. 

_“going out 2 dinner w/ con and mex. ill bring u burritos.”_

An unwilling giggle escapes my mouth. Its quickly silenced at a harsh “shh” from somewhere in the room with me. I mouth an “oops” to myself and read the next text, still giddy of the irony of Murphy's message. 

_“Don't get up yet. I'll let you know.”_

We wait for what feels like hours, straining to listen to anything we can pick up from so far away. All I can make of everything is Romeo bitching about how the customers are treating him, loud clanging, and then finally, a whirlwind of gunshots. Eunice barks something that sounds like “now” somewhere in the middle of all of it and I spring up from my kingdom of bagged rice. My knees are sore from crouching so long, causing me to stagger toward her like the first time I ever wore heels. Guns secure in our hands, we sit in the hallway that connects the kitchen to the front of the restaurant. 

“Well! Praise be to Jesus!” Connor shouts, his usual mocking tone strong in his voice. Underneath his noise, another man is whimpering and nearly crying. I recognize him from the other voice when I was on the phone with Murphy earlier. “Georgie...”

“Yeah?” 

“You know all good boys go to heaven.” 

I glance at Eunice, who is smiling so wide that I expect her face to break. Whoever this Georgie person is must be on her shit list because she seems overly excited that Connor is giving him a hard time. 

“You know, that was perhaps one of the finest examples of spiritual guidance I've ever had the good fortune to witness,” Murphy comments. 

The sound of his voice, knowing that he's perfectly okay, floods my body with cheer. I lower my head and let out a soft, chuckling breath just before peeking around the corner to look at him. Bodies pile between us, blood splattered on the floor, the walls, and the bar. I can't focus on it for too long, though, because an advancing figure across the room catches my attention. I instantly realize that its the man who showed up at my apartment, a gun pointed at Murphy's head. 

“Ridley!” Eunice snaps as I launch myself from our hiding spot. She grabs for the back of my shirt, but misses by only a small distance. 

I don't have time to tell the boys to move or get down, so I put out every ounce of my confidence with a gun and start firing toward the man. I hit the wall a few times, the floor more than a few times, and the door behind the man more often than not. Luckily, the boys know to duck at the sound of gunshots, giving me a clear range without worrying about hitting them. A sharp pain grazes my leg, but I'm filled with too much adrenaline to stop and tend to it. Instead, I continue firing bullets at the man until finally, he crouches out of sight. Romeo hauls after him, his own gun ready to hire. 

Suddenly, I'm staring down the barrels of two guns. The twins have their sights on me, yelling at me to put my gun down. For a moment, I'm too shaken and panicked to comprehend their words, but as soon as I hear the click of a gun, I'm snapped back into reality. My gun clatters to the floor and I raise my hands high over my head. 

“Easy fellas!” Eunice shouts as she comes out of hiding, her own hands raised. “We're alone!” 

The twins refuse to lower their weapons, even when Romeo returns to their side. I stare at Murphy pleadingly, but he returns it as if he's meeting me for the first time. There isn't a hint of knowing in his eyes. “Who the fuck is she?” he demands to know, his voice quivering. 

“FBI agent Eunice Bloom,” Eunice replies. 

I know the question of how I'm mixed up in her business is going to come up soon, so I decide to save them the trouble. I swallow hard and force the words from my mouth. “Eunice is my cousin,” I tell them between heavy breaths. “She's on your side. And so am I.”


	18. Would've

_Then._

I learned that day that Rocco didn't do very well under stress. While I cried in the passenger seat of his tiny, beat-up 1973 Plymouth Fury in horror and intense amounts of pain, he shouted from the driver's seat at pedestrians, fellow drivers, and inanimate objects all while swerving in and out of halted traffic. His foot slammed onto the brake pedal so harshly that the seat belt had bruised my shoulder and chest. Luckily, he ran a red light only once, but nearly T-boned my side in the process. I wasn't sure which was scarier: his driving or the fact that I may have lost my baby. 

The hospital personnel wasted absolutely no time admitting me (mostly because I was bleeding on their floors, I think) and getting me into a room. Everything had happened in such a blur that I didn't process anything that the doctor had told me, except the five words, “The baby has no heartbeat.” Aside from the fact that Rocco didn't handle stress, I had learned that I would've had a boy, that I would've named him Soren Austin Murphy MacManus, that I would've been a mother. Would've. 

While the doctors pulled my feet into stirrups and invaded me in a way that made the entire situation a million times worse, I screamed and cried and thrashed into pillows. Eventually, nurses had been ordered to come in and sedate me. Sleep was the only thing I welcomed at that point and when I woke up, I stared groggily at the reddened, teary eyes of the man who would've been the father. 

At first, Murphy said nothing. He simply sat slumped in a chair, looking as though he'd been awake for months. Refusing to look in my direction, he focused on the Styrofoam cup in his hand, filled with horrible hospital coffee that I was sure he had no intention of actually drinking. 

The silence between us was almost more painful than everything from my chest down. “Say something,” I whispered, my voice nothing but a hoarse plead. 

Murphy shrugged, placed his cup on a nearby table, and adjusted his weight. He leaned over to place his elbows on his knees and ran his fingers up his face and through his hair. His knuckles were red with fresh flesh. “Who was it?” he asked softly. 

“I don't know,” I replied, licking my lips in the process. My mouth felt so dry and sore. All I wanted was water, but I knew that even the hospital water tasted disgusting. “Rocco told you, I'm guessing.” 

Nodding slowly, Murphy finally met my gaze. Another sharp pain jolted through my body; I forced back a wince and a tiny groan. Alongside the fact that I felt pathetic and ashamed, I felt weak. I didn't want to show that side to him, not when he clearly was feeling like shit himself. “Yeah, Roc told me,” he mumbled, ruffling his hair with his fingers again. “Says he might know who the fucker was. I'm going to kill 'im.” Curling his hands into fists in his lap, he took a deep inhale. “I'm going to fucking _destroy_ 'im.” 

“Murph--”

Murphy stood so suddenly that I flinched into the pillows behind me. “ _FUCK!_ ” he hollered, delivering his fist into a glass jar of cotton balls. With a loud crack, it shattered against the floor, sending shards in every which way. “I can't just fuckin' sit here while the fucker that killed my...my...” 

My lips trembled with my words. “Your son. _Our_ son,” I informed him, only to receive a look of utter desperation. 

Murphy advanced toward the hospital bed, taking steps so carefully that I wondered if he thought he was going to hurt me just by coming near. He lowered himself onto his knees near my stomach, sneaking glances at it as if he would get in trouble just by looking at where the baby once was. “Did ya...Did ya ever decide on a name? I know we were talkin' about it and all...” 

For a moment, the name had disappeared in my head, like it was never there to begin with. When I finally did find my words, I took a second to pull myself together. “Ye-Yeah,” I muttered, reaching over to wipe a tear that had escaped from the corner of Murphy's eye. “Soren Austin Murphy MacManus.” 

I immediately regretted telling Murphy the name. To muffle a choking sob, he lowered his face into the blankets. His shoulders trembled with silenced cries. Hating myself entirely, I let my own tears fall once more and comforted him with the only goddamn way I could: a simple, pathetic, empty palm on his back.

(-)

The hospital became my home for five more days. While I rested in the uncomfortable bed, Murphy and Connor took breaks from their “street cleaning” job to take turns occupying the padded chair. Even Rocco stopped by a few times a day to let me know that he was certain he could pick out the man who had been in my apartment in a crowd. This gave me a new sense of hope that didn't quite replace the feeling of utter emptiness inside me, but put a small smile on my face, at least.

“I want to kill him,” I told the boys two nights before my discharge date. “I want to be the one to put a bullet in his brain.” 

Murphy and Connor exchanged incredulous glances. “Have ya ever even killed anyone before, lass?” Connor asked hesitantly. “Its not as easy as we make it look.” 

Underneath the thin blankets, my hands curled into fists at my sides. “Whoever he is,” I growled through a tight jaw, “he killed my son. He could've killed me. He was in my apartment. I have all rights to have at him.”

The twins let out a simultaneous sigh of exhaustion, frustration, and anger. Lazing in the chair in the corner, Rocco shrugged nonchalantly and let out a long yawn. “I'd say,” he said once he was finished belting out a noise that resembled a whale, “let 'er at it. Who cares who kills the fucker? As long as he's dead, am I right?” 

I shot the bearded man a grateful smirk. Even Rocco knew that when it was my argument against the twins, I'd always come in second place. Murphy took a seat at the foot of my bed and placed a hand on my ankle. An uncomfortable air settled over the four of us as he stared me down for minutes upon minutes, his gaze never wavering for even a second. 

“All right,” Murphy muttered, his tired eyes dragging to scan over his brother's frame. “We let 'er have this one, yeah?” Then, as if a new flame of excitement lit inside him, he turned back to me, a mischievous grin curling on his lips. “But if shit hits the fan, Connor 'n me are gonna step in, got it?”

Without putting any thought into my actions, I sat forward to wrap my arms around his neck in a tight hug and immediately regretted it. An intense, dull ache gnawed at my lower stomach, causing me to involuntarily take a sharp inhale. All at once, the three men moved closer, each with their own idea of helping me. Murphy seemed to have made sure that he put himself between me and the other two, placing his hands on my shoulders so lean me back as slowly as I needed. The pain began to subside, but didn't entirely disappear. 

“Looks like yer not killin' anyone today, lass,” Connor commented, a relieved chuckle passing through his words. “You can have yer gun back after yer done gettin' better.” 

After that day, Connor's words stuck with me, repeating in my head every time I thought back to the day at my apartment. I religiously kept my eyes glued on the TV hung on the wall on the opposite side of my room to keep track of how many killings took place in Boston. Whenever Sally McBride stood in front of an alleyway or a store, microphone pressed against her mouth to say that the Boondock Saints had made their mark yet again, my heart would slam against my chest in fear that they'd been caught. The boys showed up faithfully every day, though, just to calm my anxieties. 

My discharge date finally came after what felt like ten years. Murphy and Connor escorted me from the hospital to Rocco's car. Our bearded driver turned around, offered me a stick of gum, and placed a handgun into my palm. “Ready to do this shit?” Rocco asked, turning the key. The engine sputtered to life after a few tries. 

“I've been ready,” I answered, meeting his eager gaze through the windshield mirror. “It won't bring the baby back, but at least whoever this is won't be around to kill any more.”

(-)

“I knew I knew this fuckin' guy from somewhere,” Rocco informed us as he hauled ass down side streets. Ignoring stop signs and speed bumps alike, his driving tossed and turned Murphy, Connor, and I in the car. I gripped onto anything I could, including Murphy's arm, just to stay seated. “Yeah...yeah, he used me as an escort not that long ago. His face...blank, man. Just nothin' there. This guy takes out a whole family – wife, kids, everyone – like he's ordering a fuckin' pizza.”

The mentioning of this man killing children made me grit my teeth. From the corner of my eye, I could see Murphy clench his jaw, breathing heavily through his nose. Like mine, his gun sat in his lap, his hand resting on top of it, waiting to shoot at any given moment. 

“He has a poker game out back of his place with a bunch of wise guys every Saturday,” Rocco continued as we pulled into an extremely nice suburban neighborhood. An elderly man tending to his lawn waved to us as we passed by him, but we just pretended that we didn't see him. 

Rocco stopped just a few houses away from the a specific one that he'd lifted a finger to. The four of us waited in anticipation as a young child mounted his bike and raced off down the street toward a group of more like him. Murphy's eyes remained locked on them until they were nothing but a gang of small dots in the distance. “He's gone,” he whispered.

Connor whirled around in his seat and shoved a pair of ugly sunglasses on my face. “Ouch!” I cried out as his finger accidentally collided with my eye. 

“Apologies,” he hissed, the right corner of his mouth pulling slightly downward. 

“Hurry the fuck up!” Rocco growled through the outside of the window. 

Following his orders, Connor and I scrambled out from the car and glanced about our surroundings nervously. None of the neighbors seemed to notice a car that had never been there before. Other than the distant laughter and birds chirping in the trees, everything was dead silent. Trying not to trip over my own feet, I rushed after Murphy and Rocco, who were already halfway to the house. We ducked underneath the partially open garage door and without hesitation, Connor turned around to slam it shut. 

“Now what?” I asked, tracing the outline of the gun underneath my clothes with my fingertips. 

“We need the gate code,” Rocco said, his tone giving off a hint of obviousness like he expected the rest of us to know this. While Murphy and Connor rummaged through drawers and boxes for anything we could use, he paced back and forth, his bushy brows knit together in thought. Then, he stopped suddenly and punched the air, nearly clipping the side of Murphy's face. “The fuckin' wife!” he exclaimed. “The bitch should be home!”

In a matter of five seconds, Connor had pulled together a plan that seemed as though it could actually work. Sneaking around to the front of the house, I pulled my hair into a tight bun and made sure my sunglasses were secure on my face. It only took two knocks to rouse the wife into opening the door. 

“Can I help you?” she greeted me, wiping her hands on her lavender blouse. At first, having absolutely nothing thought up to say to her, I remained silent. From somewhere back in the kitchen, a crash sounded. The boys must've had to break the window. 

Fear and confusion struck the wife; wrinkles became apparent on her fair skin. “Uh, wildlife!” I spouted. “Must be a raccoon or something.” 

Fortunately, the woman was stupid enough to believe me. “You're probably right,” she replied, turning her back to the grown man that had quickly sprinted across her hallway once her gaze was back on me. “Is there something you need?” 

My mouth instantly dried up with words that couldn't form. “I, um, y-yes,” I stuttered, trying to focus on her instead of the bodies inching toward her from behind. “I'm from the...the...group called the Miscarriage Memoirs,” I lied. The more the words fell from my mouth to force an expression of sympathy onto her face, the more relaxed I felt in knowing that maybe this plan would work after all. “We're a group of women who have suffered the loss of our unborn children. I'm not looking for a donation or anything, but I'd just like to inform you that your shitbag husband caused mine.” 

Her expression changed so suddenly that I nearly broke out into laughter. Her mouth fell open and instead of them being filled with pity for me, anger flickered to life in her eyes. “Excuse m--” Her words were cut off my a gloved hand. Panic replaced the anger. 

Rocco, with one hand around her mouth to muffle her screams, yanked her back into the hands of Murphy and Connor, who skillfully placed duct tape over her mouth and tied her wrists behind her back with it. The way they worked together so well with the sticky silver made me think that this wasn't the first time they'd bound someone with it. Although she shrieked through the tape and thrashed about against their strength, the woman eventually settled down, falling to her knees in a mess of tears and heavy breathing. 

I had absolutely no feeling toward her. I knew I shoud've felt bad – she was innocent, after all – but I didn't. Grabbing for my gun, I lowered myself to one knee, to her level. She refused to look at me, so I pressed the barrel underneath her chin and forced her head upward. Glossy hazel eyes matched my own. “You're going to give us the gate code,” I ordered her, my voice heavy with hatred for her husband. “Or I'm going to kill you and then your son, just like your husband killed mine.”

At the mention of her son dying, the women lashed out in hysterics; she nodded frantically and let out some sort of whimpering, pleading noise. When I stood to my feet, I caught Murphy's stare. Even through the ski mask he wore, I could tell from the look in his eyes that he knew I'd gone too far. Slowly, he shook his head. I shrugged in return and followed them out as they forced the woman back through her kitchen. 

“Hit the numbers, lady! Hit the fuckin' numbers!” Rocco growled once we'd approached the gate. “I will kill you!” He shook the woman, shoving her toward the keypad, all while shouting at her until Connor slapped the back of his head. 

“Her hands are fuckin' taped!” Connor scolded. 

Rolling his eyes, Rocco released her for a moment to cut the tape with the knife he had strapped to his thigh. Once she entered the code, Murphy pointed the stun gun he had hidden away against his belt to the back of her neck and pulled the trigger. She crumpled to the ground with a heavy _thump_. 

Behind the gate rested a small, simple shed in the middle of a clearing of trees. There were no windows – just a white metal door that Rocco had said could only be opened from the inside. A circular wooden table littered with ashtrays and beer bottles sat surrounded by lawn chairs. If this wasn't a “boys only” club, then I don't know what it was. 

After a set of heavy knocks, we waited for only a few moments for the door to open. Murphy and Connor stood in front of me while Rocco guarded from behind. An almost silent click alerted the boys; they kicked the door open and raised their guns simultaneously. Seven men – three playing poker, two playing pool, and two standing idly by – turned their bewildered gazes to us. 

For a moment as I stared down the sight of my gun pointed at the man who had opened the door, I felt confused and out of place. I wasn't sure who was the man who attacked me, so I looked to Rocco for clarification. Instead of pointing out one man, the mask he wore shifted near his mouth in an invisible smile. “All of 'em,” he said. 

“What?!” I barked, but my voice was tiny compared to the gunshots that rang out from their guns.

Murphy and Connor didn't think twice before unloading their bullets into these men. Most of them fell before having a chance to drop for cover while two of them tried to shield themselves by hiding under the pool table. As I watched Rocco fall to his knees and aim his gun at them, my heart felt as if it was beating its way up into my throat and out of my mouth. We didn't come here to kill all these men – just the one who killed my baby. 

When it was all over, life fell silent again. Rocco jumped around, inspecting the faces of the men closely. Connor lifted his mask to wipe the sweat from his face and Murphy nearly sprinted toward me, wrapping his fingers around my arms. 

“Riddles, you okay?” he breathed. I couldn't tell his exact expression through the mask, but the way his eyes darted back and forth, focusing on each of mine at a time, I could tell he was concerned. “Ya didn't shoot. What's wrong? Did ya change yer mind?” 

I pushed his hands away from my body and took a back step from him. “Why did you guys kill everyone? These men didn't do anything.” 

Before Murphy could defend his actions, Rocco threw his hands up in the air. “Shit! _Shit!_ He ain't here!” he bellowed, jumping around the bodies as if he was dancing around a fire. My mouth fell open at his words. That meant all these deaths were for nothing. 

Murphy ripped off his ski mask and tossed it to the ground. “Oh, what the fuck you mean, he isn't here?!” he shouted, waving his gun near Rocco's face. 

Slapping the gun from his space, Rocco pushed hard on Murphy's shoulders. “I mean he ain't here!” 

Luckily, I was able to grab onto Murphy's shirt before he toppled over one of the bodies, but instead of acknowledging me, he advanced toward Rocco until their noses nearly touched. “Look again, for fuck's sake!” Connor hollered from the other side of the room. 

The three of them continued to yell at one another like stupid little kids arguing over some game. Utterly exhausted, disappointed, and heartbroken, I branched away from them toward a door nestled in the corner. I just needed two seconds by myself to get my thoughts straight and then I could maybe face them again. The door opened before I could even wrap my hand around the knob, revealing a set of eyes I knew instantly. 

My fingers pulled the trigger before I gave it a second thought. The man let out a choking groan, curled over into a ball, and fell hard to the floor just like his wife had. 

“You shot 'im in the dick?!” Rocco yelled from somewhere behind me. I wasn't quite listening to anything the three of them were saying. 

I'd never been so filled with rage and adrenaline all at once. Not when I'd walked out on my parents, not when I first withstood a beating from Trevor, not even when Rocco tried to sell me out to save his own skin. As I put another bullet into the man's left kneecap, I saw red. I couldn't even hear him scream out in pain over the sound of my own heart beating in my ears. Once his left kneecap had been reduced to nothing but a mess of blood, stringy crimson meat, and what was left of his bone, I moved up to his hands. 

“Ridley,” Connor said, his lips right up against my ear. His voice so close to me brought me out of my murderous trace. Only then did I realize that I'd been pulling the trigger repeatedly when I'd run out of bullets long ago. Still, the man laid shaking in a pool of his own blood and urine, moaning unintelligibly.

From the corner of my eye, Murphy took a step closer, his gun pointed at the man. Almost instinctively, I grabbed his arm to stop him. “You said I could,” I whispered. 

“I know,” he replied, settling his gaze downward at me. “We'll do it together.” As I curled my hand around his and found room on the trigger for both our fingers, the twins broke out into their usual prayer. 

“ _And Shepherds we shall be for Thee, my lord, for Thee._ ” I thought of my son, of what he could have been. What would he have looked like? Would he have had my black hair, or Murphy's brown? Would he have had that cute mole just above his mouth like his father? Would he have had my nose? 

“ _Power hath descended forth from Thy hand. Our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command._ ” Would he have been excited about life like Murphy was? Would he had grown up to be gentle and kind and perfect like Murphy was? Would he have eventually saved a girl who would one day fall in love with him like Murphy did? 

“ _So we shall flow a river forth to Thee and teeming with souls shall it ever be._ ” He would've been loved. He was loved. He would forever be loved. 

“ _In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti._ ” 

Murphy and I pulled the trigger together, driving a final bullet between the man's eyes. The moaning stopped, his head fell backward, and his body slammed onto the floor. For a long time, we didn't move. As much as I wanted to cry, I couldn't. I felt as if I'd spent all my tears on my son. 

Finally, Connor looped his arms around the two of us while Rocco took the gun from our hands. “We're done here,” he mumbled, kicking one of the dead bodies on our way out. 

As we walked from the shed, the ringing in my ears only seemed to grow louder and louder with every step we took back toward the car. Murphy's hand never left mine; it was as if we'd turned to stone together. 

Without realizing that Rocco had stopped short in front of me, I'd slammed into his back. “What the fuck, Rocco?” I hissed, giving him a forceful shove forward. Instead of answering me, he stood still, staring at a car parked across the street that hadn't been there when we arrived. Peeking around the massive man, I spotted a single person staring us down. 

Circular sunglasses and smoke lifting from the cigar in his mouth covered his eyes. A salt-and-pepper speckled beard covered his face, giving away that he was much into his older years. He only gave us a few seconds before lifting his head to look at us and open his black trench coat, revealing six guns strapped to his chest. 

It was fucking ambush.


	19. The Queen of Secrets

_Now._

“Oh, you think we're supposed to believe that shit?!” Romeo hollers as he practically trots around Connor and Murphy, his gun pointed toward the floor. He stops at Murphy's side and extends a finger toward me. “You were fuckin' a narc and you didn't even _know_?!” he spits in Murphy's face. 

I bite the inside of my cheek and lock my grip even tighter around my gun. “I'm not a narc,” I hiss lowly. Dislike was not an emotion I'd felt for Romeo before. Aggravation? Sure. Annoyance. Oh, of course. Dislike? Not so much. Until this moment. Unhinging my teeth from the fleshy interior of my mouth, I release a long exhale. “I'm trying to help you.” 

The adrenaline of firing bullet after bullet finally wears off. The pain on my leg, which has lessened from a sharp pain to something more throbbing and dull, creeps back into reality. Without taking my eyes off the trio of men in front of us, I reach down and wince in disgust at the warm liquid seeping onto my pants. It isn't enough to cause alarm – whoever that man was must've just barely nicked me with a bullet – but with everything going on on top of this, I suddenly feel weak and nauseated.

Connor and Murphy's guns don't waver from Eunice and I. From the way her chest is rising and falling, I can tell my cousin isn't feeling as confident as she usually is. If I can't convince the twins and their yapping sidekick that we're on their side, I wonder if she thinks she can. Then, a familiar light sparks in her eyes. 

“I think we may have a dearly departed mutual friend worth discussing, boys,” she announces. The twins share an uneasy glace before looking back toward us. 

“Mutual friend?” Murphy barks, his eyes narrowing as he stares down the sight of his gun. “By the name of fuckin' who?” 

“Paul Maximillian fucking Smecker.” 

The sound of his name hits the boys just as hard as it hits me. Realization becomes apparent on their faces; an identical, almost silent gasp and mouths pressed into thin lines. For a moment, I find myself wishing on everything that Smecker could be here with us, making some comment that blows Romeo's earlier shot of the mouth out of the water. The twins finally lower their guns and Murphy gives a small nod.

“We heard,” he says acidly. “He was a good man.”

“Aye,” Connor chimes in, shifting his body weight uncomfortably. “You have our condolences.” 

Eunice dips her head in a mirror of Murphy's nod. “And you mine.”

Romeo's narrowed, dark eyes meet mine for a moment before he continues waving his gun around like it couldn't easily put an end to somebody's life. “Well, I'm so glad everyone is fuckin' best friends now!” he shouts sarcastically. “Now who the fuck was that guy?!” 

I know Murphy is staring at me, wondering why it was me who began shooting at the man first. He knows that I know, but Eunice is still left in the dark about everything. “This morning,” I start in a low mumble, “I got a knock at my door. I didn't answer it, but I was able to get a good look at him. I'm pretty sure it was the same guy.” 

“Well, its a damn good thing you didn't open that door,” Eunice says, her voice as condescending as ever, “because that man, I suspect, was the shooter these boys have been looking for.” She takes a moment to flip her fiery hair over her shoulder and bat her eyelashes at the boys. I lift my eyes to the ceiling and take a deep breath through my nose. Yet again, she's found another way to annoy the living hell out of me. 

Romeo seems to have picked up on my annoyance because he rolls his eyes and throws his arms in the air defeated. “Who the fuck is this broad, Ridley?!” he demands to know. “What the fuck is going on here?!”

For a moment as Eunice lets out a long breath, I close my eyes tightly and try to picture myself back at my tedious job. Right now, I miss it more than anything. Tracey hasn't called me, so I wonder if I'm still employed or not. If she would've fired me, Shauna probably would've called me to ask what the hell I was doing that was so much more important than showing up for a paycheck. 

What would I even tell her? That I was too busy getting mixed up in criminal activity to try to collect debts from people all day? Yeah, that would go over _so_ smoothly with her. 

“Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's gotta dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary,” Eunice snaps, her voice dripping with irritation at, I assume, being called a broad. 

While she and Romeo waste a moment taking shots at each other, I shift my imagination toward McGinty's. A stomach full of booze sounds so perfect right now. Just forgetting about all this, pretending nobody's lives are in danger, stumbling back to the apartment for another bout of drunken, angry sex with Murphy. I catch myself staring at his lips from across the room. Now is hardly the time to close the distance between us. 

Eunice spouts off into another show of her impressive occupation. I swear, if I ever hear about how much control she has from the shadows as an FBI agent again, it'll be much too soon. “Now, I am conspiring to do this with three like-minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well,” Eunice brags, taking a moment to let out a light, flirtatious chuckle, “a girl's got to have her fun.”

Murphy finally looks at me and I immediately wish he hadn't. I can't tell if he's pissed off, disgusted, or ready to rip my clothes off. When his mouth opens, though, its plain as day how he feels about me at the moment. “Dolly, Duffy, and Greenley, huh?” he spits. I've never heard their names come from his mouth with so much ire before. Realizing that I must've caught onto this, his tone changes to one much softer. “That's how ya knew to find somewhere else to stay? Ridley, were ya spyin' on me for yer cousin?”

The sudden shift in the emotional atmosphere around us catches me off-guard. I was expecting at least a word of thanks for saving their asses, but this? Some sort of personalized interrogation? I suddenly feel smaller than I ever have in the presence of Eunice. I know she's watching me, probably smirking to herself that this plan worked out in the favor of embarrassing me. 

“That's not how it is, Murphy,” I reply through gritted teeth. “I was trying to help.”

“Remember the last time ya tried to help? Ya got yerself kidnapped.”

Connor rushes to cut off our lover's quarrel. “So, how are the Three Stooges doin'?” he questions Eunice, his voice optimistic like he's genuinely concerned about the well being of the detectives. He probably is – Connor was never one to hide his concerns. Murphy glances away, shaking his head slowly. I'm beginning to think that I shouldn't have come or tried to help.

“Two of them are scared,” Eunice answers, flipping her hair over her shoulder to shed the jacket from her back. “One's just horny. All right, boys and baby cousin, we've got a big problem right now.” She places her jacket on the back of one of the chairs, props her hands on her hips, and glances around at the mass of dead bodies that have seemingly fallen forgotten in the midst of our talking. “We've got to do something with these guys.”

“They're already dead,” I point out, stroking the trigger of my gun with my fingertip. “What more can we do? Burn them?”

From her bra, Eunice pulls out a few pairs of rubber gloves. I watch in horror, thinking of how much boob sweat must've accumulated on them during the time since she stuffed them in there. The boys don't seem to notice; Romeo and Connor's gazes are locked on her rack while Murphy crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes glaring daggers into the floor. His left cheek twitches from the bites I'm sure he's digging into his flesh. Doing this in uncomfortable situations is one of the many things Murphy and I have in common with each other. 

“The way things look now,” Eunice says, tossing a pair of gloves to Romeo, who is more than eager to touch them, “aren't going to do us any good. We need to make it look like these men didn't agree with one another.”

Avoiding touching absolutely anything with our bare hands, the five of us delve into the art of rearranging dead bodies. I work mostly alongside Romeo, who can't seem to let go of the fact that he thinks Eunice is “a smokin' hot tater tot.” Finally, I can't take it anymore. I rush to the back storage where Eunice and I had hid out, grab a push broom, and make my way toward Murphy.

“I wasn't using you, you know,” I say, leaning against the handle of the broom. Murphy says nothing to me as he grabs a bald corpse by the wrists and drags him to the spot Eunice had instructed him to. “How was I supposed to tell you that my cousin is a member of the FBI without you throwing a shit fit?” 

He takes a moment to pull himself together. He's obviously furious with me; he still hasn't stopped gnawing on the inside of his cheek, his face is a slight tint of crimson, and his breathing comes out unevenly. When he looks up at me from the corpse in his hands, its as if that anger was never there to begin with. “Ya act like...like talkin' to me is the worst thing in the world. If ya would've just let me knows what's goin' on--”

I cut him off with a heavy, exhausted sigh. This whole day has been nothing short of a shit show and I'm finally beginning to feel it. “I was afraid,” I admit, lowering my voice to a hushed whisper so my cousin and her two cabana pool boys can't hear me. “Since you've come back, my entire life has flipped upside down and I've been afraid every second of every day. I never know what's going to happen and I'm afraid that I'm going to screw everything up and people are going to die. So, I'm just doing what I think is right.” 

Murphy doesn't reply right away. Carefully taking off his bloodied gloves, he closes his fingers around them and pushes them into his pocket. “How's yer leg?” he questions, apparently done talking about my life decisions. 

I lift my shoulders in a shrug. “Doesn't hurt,” I lie. The throbbing pain hasn't gone away and feels like it isn't going to anytime soon. “What do we do from here? I mean, the cops are going to be here soon. We can't hang around here much longer.”

Eunice's arm wraps around my shoulders, causing a jolt of surprise to surge through me. “What seems like the best place to hide after a shootout, baby cousin?” she purrs into my ear. “Somewhere that you could curl up in a comfy little speakeasy and drink all your problems away?”

(-)

“Is it too late or too early for a whiskey sour?”

“Is that all ya think about, Riddles?”

“Mostly, yeah.”

Long ago, I wondered if Doc ever slept. He seemed to be awake at all hours of the day and all hours of the night. Turns out, I realized one day when I was watching him especially carefully, he gets his beauty sleep while standing behind the bar. While the bar patrons kept their attention away from him, Doc would put on a false smile and drift off into sleep, the glare of the lights above him hiding the fact that his eyes were closed behind his glasses.

And that is exactly how we find him at two in the morning when Murphy nearly kicks the door off the hinges to McGinty's. The poor old man practically jumps out of his skin, accidentally sweeps a mug from the counter, and jumps once more at the sound of glass shattering on the hardwood floor. “B-B-Boys!” he exclaims, hurrying to grab a rag and pretend as if he'd been wiping down the register. 

“And lady!” I add on, throwing my hands in the air in defeat. I swear, if we were ever held captive and Doc was ordered to shoot two of us, he wouldn't hesitate to shoot me and then himself just to save the twins. 

“Look, Fuck-Ass,” Connor mumbles as he leans his forearms on the counter, “we've got ourselves into a bad spot again. Mind if we use the pub for a bit?”

Doc's tired eyes bore into Connor's for so long that I wonder if he's learned how to fall asleep with his eyelids open. Then, he snaps his gaze to me. “You're not sh-sh-shootin' up the place, a-a-are ya?”

I roll my eyes dramatically. “Of course not,” I retort. “You act like that's all we ever do. We're just meeting some friends here. Why don't you go on upstairs and actually sleep in a bed for once?” 

He seems much too exhausted to argue with me. As he heads for the stairs, he mutters something that I can't quite hear. I can only assume that it has to do with his concern that we're going to wreck the place, which may or may not be something to worry about. Either way, once he's gone, I turn to the boys and flash a proud thumbs-up. Romeo and Connor smile in return, but Murphy only gives a simple head nod. 

On the ride here, Murphy and I sat side-by-side in Romeo's piece of shit car. He didn't say a single word to me, but when I had reached for his hand, he didn't pull away like I'd expected him to. Instead, his fingers fell into the spaces between mine and remained there until we pulled into the parking lot of McGinty's. I'm sure the same thought has been running through both our minds: this isn't the time or place to talk about how I'm the queen of keeping secrets. 

Thankfully, the vibration from my phone in my pocket pulls my attention from Murphy. A text from Eunice lights up the screen and as I read the words, my stomach erupts into cartwheels. 

“ _Be ready_.”

“Okay, guys,” I breathe, trying to force the smile that's sneaking onto my face into a hard line. “Showtime.” 

While the twins scurry behind the bar, Romeo leans against he counter casually. I take a seat on one of the bar stools, giving the liqueur cabinet a once over. Whiskey seems to be the most common item on the shelves. Surely Doc wouldn't notice if just one bottle went missing. 

The door to the pub creaks open and Eunice strolls in, an amused smirk plastered on her face. Behind her trot my three detective friends, their faces carved with confusion and alarm once they see Romeo and I. Romeo narrows his eyes into a fierce glare and puffs out his chest, probably trying to make himself seem bigger than he really is, while I just smile and wave. 

“Hey, guys,” I greet. “How's it hangin'?”

“Oh, a little to the left,” Dolly tries to joke, but his voice is strained. He doesn't hesitate to lift a finger toward Romeo. “Who the fuck is this guy, Ridley?!” His voice sounds as if it raises five octaves as he begins yelling. “You're either vice or IAD! You're IAD, aren't you?! Okay, come on, fucking arrest us! I'm ready!”

The three men erupt in a series of either empty threats or whimpers of how they can't believe they've finally been caught. I can't help it anymore. A laugh escapes my mouth, which sounds more like a sarcastic howl more than anything. They stop talking and stare at me as if I've gone crazy. 

“The fuck's so funny?” Greenly questions, glancing to Eunice for answers. 

“HANDS ABOVE YER HEAD!” the twins shout from behind me. 

Before I know it, my hair and back is soaked with ginger ale. After a moment of shock, I duck below the bar, watching the marvelous sight of the detectives receiving the same carbonated shower. They try to scatter about to hide, but Dolly and Greenly slam into each other and Duffy nearly trips over Dolly's foot. Meanwhile, Eunice and I look at each other, her face glowing with a grin. For the first time since I can remember, I think to myself that I'm genuinely glad she's here. 

“Ya don't write!” Connor mockingly scolds the detectives between laughter. “Ya don't fuckin' call!”

“Ya should be ashamed of yerselves!” Murphy chimes in, taking a long drag from the cigarette between his lips. 

Duffy grabs for my hand to help me out from the floor. Out of breath from laughing so hard, I smile at him once more. His gaze flicks between Eunice at I before he pulls me into a hug. “You two knew all along?!” 

Like the first night I met the twins, I was suddenly engulfed in a tight hug from the both of them, squishing Duffy somewhere in the middle of all of us. Connor's breath smells of fresh beer, leaving a feeling of envy in my gut. Why didn't I hide out behind the bar with the two of them? That would've solved my craving for something intoxicating.

As Murphy's lips crash onto mine, I realize this will do just fine. “Riddles here is pretty good at keepin' shit from everyone,” he comments. His tone is far from angry or sarcastic or anything other than playful. With a deep chuckle, he presses his lips to my cheek before patting Duffy on the back. “That's why she's still standin', right?” 

I can breathe easy again, knowing for at least just this moment as I look around at the smiles and hugs, that everything just might turn out okay.


	20. Liabilities

_Then._

Black-gloved hands reached for two guns and somewhere behind me, Connor let out a loud, “FUCK!” Murphy, who didn't waste any time retracting his hand from mine, grabbed my shoulders and pushed me roughly off the porch and into the bushes below. Branches and sharp needled leaves poked and jabbed at my skin as I landed on the dirt below. Gunshots filled the air, covering up the sound of my screaming. 

Above and behind me, a window shattered. Glass exploded in all directions. One of the largest shards that remained intact nicked my ear just deep enough to immediately start a river of blood down my cheek and neck. I curled my arms around my head, sinking into myself as some sort of desperate move of protection. Over the gunshots, Murphy's pained yell hit me like a fist to the gut.

No, I thought. I'd come here with them to finish off the man who killed my son. I wasn't just going to sit back and let them finish the last man standing. 

I stood from the bushes just in time to attempt to catch Rocco, who had apparently lost his balance and toppled over the side of the porch. “My pinky!” he screamed, wrapping his jacket around his left hand. “He shot my fuckin' pinky off!” Slinking back into me for support, he continued to wail about his pinky and fire rounds off at the man. 

“Give me the gun, Rocco!” I shouted. Instead of listening to me, his fingers worked the trigger like there was no tomorrow. My fist landed hard into his arm, earning me some sort of derogatory slur that I couldn't care less about. Still, it made him stop firing long enough for me to grab the gun and shoot off three of my own bullets toward our attacker before the chamber clicked empty. 

Somewhere in the dust of the bullets slamming into the ground, a car alarm sounded, probably frightening that poor old man from down the street. That is, if the noise of the gunshots hadn't already sent him into cardiac arrest. “Riddles, get down!” Connor bellowed above it all. I probably should have listened to him. 

I'd been hit by all sorts of things in my life: baseballs, fists, books, cellphones, and even lamps. But a bullet was something new entirely, even if it was just a light scathe. Just above the lining of my pants, a bullet whizzed past, cutting open the bottom left side of my shirt and exposing veined inner flesh. Blood seeped down my skin, soaking my pants, and dripped down my leg. There was no pain, surprisingly. That is, until everything quieted long enough for me to realize the man had fled on foot, leaving the four of us covered in our own blood and sweat. Then the pain hit. 

At first, it stung like lemon juice discovering a paper cut. Inhaling sharply, I pressed my hand to the wound, realizing it wasn't quite as bad as it felt. A cut no longer than my pointer finger ripped away at my skin pumped blood out in small droplets. Should I have gone to the hospital to have it checked out? Probably. Did I? Certainly not. The last thing I needed was to explain to a nurse just how exactly I got hurt. 

After a few moments of hearing the boys yell about tending to the blood splattered all over the white-painted porch, the pain had lessened to a series of dull, throbbing aches. “Ridley!” Connor screamed, throwing an empty can of ammonia into his duffel bag. “Are ya okay, lass?! Can ya hear me?!” 

I could hear him, somewhat. There was a rather loud and annoying ringing constantly screeching in my ears, but for the most part, I understand what he said. Replying wasn't easy. I wasn't sure if I was okay or not. So, instead of giving an answer that may or may not be true, I just stared at him.

Connor's frantic eyes searched mine for a moment, probably looking for any sign that I hadn't been shot in the brain. Then, noticing the blood on my clothes, he lowered his gaze to my wound. “She's hurt!” he cried out. “She's hurt bad!” 

I'd swore I only blinked. Suddenly, instead of Connor inspecting me, Murphy's face was only inches from mine. “Riddles,” he said, his voice as calm as possible. “You're hurt. We have to go.” 

“I'm fine,” I replied automatically. Hearing his voice without any ounce of pain or fear in it felt like a breath of fresh air had been blown into my body. Reaching down, I wrapped my hand around Rocco's arm, helping him scramble to his feet. “We have to go,” I said, repeating Murphy's words in the same tone. 

“I fuckin' know we do!” Rocco shouted. Still holding his injured hand in his clothes, he tilted his head back toward the sky and let out some strange groan. “I can't fuckin' drive like this! Riddles, you have to!” 

So I did. With the boys huddled together in the back of the car, whimpering and moaning about their injuries, I sat in the driver's seat, eyes locked on the road and hands gripping so hard on the wheel that my joints began to ache. Anxiety swelled inside me as I passed side streets and ran stop signs. I knew if a cop had turned on his lights behind me, I wouldn't stop. Rocco's house was the only thing on my mind. 

A hand fell on my shoulder, nearly causing me to jump out of my own skin. When I looked into the rear view mirror, however, Murphy's eyes stared back at me. “Yer doin' great, Riddles,” he whispered in my ear. 

The drive flew past more or less in a blur. Even though I was sure I'd missed a turn or two, we somehow ended up in front of Rocco's house in no less than ten minutes. As soon as the car came to a stop, the boys tumbled from the back of the car and I shakily made my way out, grabbing onto the door for dear life. The pain in my side and on my ear still irritated me, but not as badly as it did before. 

Wrapping his arm around my shoulder, Murphy helped me toward the house, limping slightly as we went. Luckily, none of Rocco's neighbors were hanging out outside like they normally were, giving us all the more chance to be as loud as clumsy as we needed as we stumbled through the back doors and into the kitchen. 

“Who the fuck was he, Rocco?!” Connor shouted the moment we were inside. While the two of them bickered back and forth, Murphy pulled out a chair and gently sat me on it, smoothing the hair from my face. 

“How's yer side?” he questioned, his voice soft. 

I'd almost forgotten that I'd also been harmed in all the shouting. Ever so slowly, I lifted the side of my shirt. The blood had completely dried against my skin and clothes, which seemed like a miracle. Back at the shootout, I remembered so much more of it. Then again, everyone had been bleeding at that point. “I'm okay.”

Forcing a small smile on his face, Murphy pressed his lips to my forehead and muttered against my skin, “Ya did so good, Riddles.” Then, standing straight, he turned to Rocco and his attitude turned completely. “Fuck ya, Rocco! What the fuck was that?! Ya knew 'im, didn't ya?!” 

“Oh, fuck you both!” Rocco retorted, sloppily pointing to both the twins. “I didn't fuckin' know that last guy?! Why the fuck would I lie to you?!” 

Suddenly, the mixture of scrambled eggs and sausage I'd eaten that morning churned wildly in my stomach. While the boys occupied themselves with jabbing fingers in the other's faces and shouting over the others, I stood from the table, the need to vomit rising with every step I took toward the bathroom. Fortunately, I'd left the trio just in time; puke rose in my throat and exploded from my lips the moment I opened the door. Most of it landed in the toilet. Some of it...well, Rocco would just have to deal with it later. 

I curled around the porcelain throne, staring at the grotesque mixture of my breakfast, wondering if more was going to come up. My throat burned and tears of effort brimmed my eyes. Barfing was one of my least favorite things in the world, right next to being beaten by a boyfriend or not speaking to my parents for months or losing a baby. 

Thinking about the baby, my son, I lifted myself from the floor, flushing the toilet in the process. It still hurt like hell, picturing what his face might've looked like as he grew older, but as I stared at my own face in the smudged mirror, I felt a sense of justice. My baby's killer was dead and even though the world didn't feel quite as right, it felt better to live in. 

A knock at the door tore my attention away from my reflection. “Riddles?” Murphy called through the door, adding another quick knock. “Ya in there?”

“Yeah, I'm here.” Before I could even think about what I was doing, I pressed the lock on the door before he could open it. “I'm fine. Just give me a minute.” It wasn't that I didn't want him to see me with my head lodged in the toilet; he'd seen that plenty of times when the morning sickness had started. Since the miscarriage, I'd barely gotten any time alone between the twins, Rocco, and hospital personnel. I was going to milk this for all I could get.

“All right,” Murphy murmured, barely audible through the door. “Just checkin'.” 

I waited for a few moments of silence before turning on the water in the sink. Lifting my shirt once more, I let out a sigh of relief. It didn't look like I needed to be checked out by a doctor, thankfully. If I ever saw another one of those again in my life, it would be too soon. Grabbing a wash cloth from underneath the counter, I doused it in warm water and wrung it out the best I could. Once the dried blood had been cleaned up, it certainly looked a lot better than before. Sure, it would probably leave a scar, but nothing too serious. 

A pained, muffled groan forced my thoughts away from my own wound entirely. I couldn't tell if it was coming from Murphy or Connor, but I didn't give myself enough time to think about it. Nearly kicking the bathroom door open, I sprinted down the hallway and into the kitchen, just in time to see Rocco and Connor holding Murphy down against the counter, a steaming clothes iron pressed to Murphy's arm. 

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” I shrieked, charging after Rocco. 

“Stop it, lass!” Connor bellowed just as Rocco released Murphy's arms to hold me back. Much to my surprise, Murphy didn't even try to get away from his brother. He only continued to scream into the bandanna in his mouth as the steam sunk into his skin. The rotten stench of burning flesh filled the room, threatening more puke to rise from my stomach. “He'll get infected if we don't do this!”

Watching Murphy nod along with his brother's words – or at least, try to – calmed me down instantly. Infection meant worse things than a burn scar, even if it didn't seem that way right now. I slumped against Rocco, watching relief flood over Murphy's face as Connor lifted the iron from his skin. Twisted, blood-stained skin replaced what was once his wound.

Spitting out the bandanna, Murphy turned to Rocco, sweat dripping from his face. “All right, Rocc,” he said, his voice trembling. “Yer next. Riddles, ya might wanna step out for a bit. Get some fresh air, ya know?” 

He didn't have to tell me twice.

(-)

“Riddles, ya hungry at all?”

“No, not really.” 

“But ya threw up everythin' ya--”

“Shh, shut the fuck up! He's back on!”

As if those were the magic words, the four of us turned toward the tiny TV settled on the kitchen counter. Beside me, Murphy struggled to light a cigarette; his hands still shook from the burning sensation throughout his left arm. Almost automatically, I reached over, grabbed the lighter from his hand, and lit it for him before looking back at the screen. 

“I'm confident that the investigation will end in the apprehension of the suspects,” Smecker concluded, which was a lackluster ending to his speech before the commercial break. 

It felt like years since I'd last seen his face. Before, when I was under investigation for Trevor's death, I sat underneath the glow of Smecker's gaze as a whimpering, terrified, victim of a little girl. So much had happened since then. I couldn't even imagine how pathetic I must've looked to him.

Giving an annoyed scoff, Rocco switched off the TV and tossed the remote onto the table we sat around. “Fuckin' hell,” Murphy murmured, taking a long drag from his cigarette. 

“What? That guy?” Rocco questioned.

“That's the guy that got us off the hook with that Checkov thing back on St. Patty's Day. Ya remember, don't ya?”

“And he's the one who interviewed me when Trevor mysteriously died,” I added, earning myself a proud and comical smirk from the twins. “He's a good guy.”

“And sharp,” Connor remarked with a heavy sigh. “If he hasn't figured us out yet, he will.”

“Well, I'd say that makes him a lia-fuckin'-bility.” Rocco, who seemed so pleased with his statement, crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, causing the wood to groan in defiance. 

“He isn't to be touched,” the twins decided simultaneously. 

Watching the two of them nod to each other put the idea into my head that maybe, sometimes, they could read each other's mind. I sure hoped they couldn't because from knowing some of the thoughts Murphy had shared with me in the past, I didn't want Connor to know what I looked like naked.

(-)

For the first time in weeks, I returned to my apartment under the watchful eye of Murphy. Together we dined with microwave dinners, showered away all the blood, made love, and curled up underneath my blankets. Surprisingly, it didn't take us very long to fall asleep. Within only a few minutes of lying still, Murphy's snores lulled me into the best sleep I'd gotten in months.

I slept so good, in fact, that I barely remember him getting up at the ass crack of dawn to kiss me goodbye before he left for church. I also slept so good that I forgot to remind him to lock the door on his way out and failed to hear people walk into my apartment. 

I woke up inside the trunk of a car.


	21. Sack-O-Matic

_Now._

_“The boys are back! The boys are back! The boys are back! And they're looking for trouble!”_

Over all the laughter and teasing toward one another, I barely hear my phone ring. If it hadn't been vibrating in my pocket, I probably would've ignored it. Looking at Tracey's name on the screen, though, makes it obvious that I can't just slip it back to where it came from and pretend I didn't see it.

“Is partying more important than showing up to, y'know, your _job_?!” she screams into my ear the moment I press the answer button. Overhearing her voice, Murphy casts an intrigued glance in my direction. Instead of trying to hold my own conversation, I sneak away to the corner of the bar and shield my other ear with my hand. 

“Tracey?” I question. I'd heard her shrieks of anger before, but this was something entirely new. She didn't sound quite like a fully grown woman – she sounded more like a mix between squealing tires on pavement and the cry of a newborn baby. 

“Who else would be calling you about your job?!” she retorts. “It seems I'm the only one who gives a flying fuck about attendance anymore! Do you realize that twenty-five percent of my staff has quit, including Shauna?! And now I have one who hasn't shown up in fuck knows how long!” 

Shauna quit? That explains why she hasn't called me and demanded to know where I've been. I run a hand over my face and force out a long, heavy breath. “Look,” I start, not exactly sure how I'm going to get myself out of this, “I've been going through some shit lately – a lot of family issues.”

“Family issues?!” she repeats. Her voice raises another note, which I find surprising. “You're having family issues?! My step-brother was murdered at some shit hole Mexican restaurant and I still show my ass up to work!”

I can't tell her the truth. Maybe one day, when the both of us are wrinkled, senile, and the only thing we have to look forward to is the next bingo game in our retirement home, I'll tell her. But not now. “Tracey, I'm sorry, okay? I'll-I'll be there in the morning, I swear.”

“Don't bother. You're fired.” And with that, the line falls dead.

To be honest, I'm not upset. Leading a double life isn't as glamorous as it seems. In fact, it's exhausting. As I shove my phone back into my pocket and make my way back toward the group, who have delved into a more serious conversation, I ponder on the feeling of relief. At least now I won't have co-workers talking behind my back if I end up behind bars. 

Approaching the group, I wrap my arm around Murphy's shoulder and lean into him. He snakes his hand around my waist and remains focused on a file on Connor's hand. I crane my neck to get a good look at the picture inside – a picture of the idiot who tried to sneak an attack on the twins and Romeo back at the restaurant. 

“This is our guy,” Eunice comments, flicking the picture with her perfectly manicured fingers. “A Sicilian immigrant. Name's Ottilio Panza. He'll be front-page news in the morning, but we have to assume that Yakavette already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to plan-B us.”

Thunderous coughing from upstairs hushes her for a moment. I pull myself from Murphy's embrace and mutter, “I'll go check on him. The old man's getting really bad these days.” Connor gives me a nod of agreement as I pass him to make my way toward the stairs and Doc's room. 

The old man is still fighting off his coughing fit when I enter the tiny space. It's too dark to see anything, but I can easily make out the shadowed mass against the furthest wall that trembles a little too violently as more coughs boom against the walls. A disgusting spitting noise follows one more cough, making me shudder, and then silence. 

“You okay in here?” I question softly, just in case he wasn't completely awake by now. Doc's shadow shifts again.

“I'm all right, lass,” he reassures me. “D-Don't ever get old.” 

His words sadden me; he says them with a tone of defeat, like he's just giving up on life and accepting death whenever it comes, which we all know won't be too long. I'd never thought about life without Doc before, but now, hearing him practically cough out all his internal organs, the idea crawls into my mind. 

More than anything, I want to turn back time, at least in Doc's world. I want to see his smile as a young chap who couldn't be a day older than the twins. I want more days with the guy. I know it's impossible and that I ultimately need to accept that I have maybe another year or two with him. I'd never known any of my grandparents, and Doc is the closest thing I have to that. 

Knowing it won't be long before I understand the pain of saying, “My grandpa just died,” I let out a heavy exhale. 

“All right,” I say, opening the door behind me. “See you tomorrow.” 

His only response is a lengthy snore.

(-)

“I'm shocked, Riddles. Truly, I am.” Murphy pushes out a breathy chuckle and shakes his head. “I mean, yer not demandin' to come along? What's gotten into ya?”

I offer a shrug and nestle myself into his side on my couch. With a quick kiss to the side of my head, he curls his arm around my shoulders. “I'm just worried about Doc,” I honestly answer. “He isn't doing so good and...well, I don't want to be the one to say it, but I think his days are pretty limited. I mean, have you seen the way he walks now? He looks like he's about to topple over at any minute. I don't know. I guess I just want to be there in case something does happen, y'know?” 

Murphy stays silent for a moment while he absentmindedly curls my hair around his fingers. I feel like we have so many things to talk about – my new state of unemployment, the plan he and Connor put together that I just know is half-assed, and how excited we should be that we've figured out who to go after – but we're both exhausted. The sunlight is beginning to crawl in through my blinds and neither of us has slept since yesterday. 

“That's fer the best,” Murphy finally says. “Dolly, Duffy, and Greenly should be enough help. And yer right – Doc's not lookin' too hot these days.” 

Part of me was hoping he wouldn't agree. I close my eyes and lean my head against him, wishing that time would just stop ticking by. Deep down, I know everything is going to grow worse. I can't stand the thought of the twins and Romeo being caught by the police or the thought that Doc won't be part of my life forever. 

I suppose I doze off for an hour or two because when my eyes open, I'm curled up with Murphy in my bed. Beside me, he snores softly, one arm still around me and the other resting above his head. I take a moment to stretch out my legs and glance at the clock. Just a few minutes past eight o'clock, it reads. Why the hell can't I sleep in anymore? 

Cautiously sneaking out of Murphy's grasp, I slide out of bed and make my way back into the living room. Above me, I can hear my upstairs neighbors shouting at each other. I can't make out most of it, but I do hear something about moving to another state and that there are too many criminals here in Boston. As I hurry to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, I grab the remote and flick the TV on. It hasn't left the news channel in months. 

“Law enforcement has classified the Italian immigrant, Ottilio Panza, as its prime suspect in the murder of the beloved local cleric.”

My body freezes mid-coffee ground pour as my eyes flash to the screen. An _Action News First_ anchorman, one I've never seen before, seems to be talking directly me. At least, it definitely feels that way. On the right side of his face, a picture of Panza appears. He's dressed cleanly, with his hair smoothed to the side and a look of indifference written on his face. I hurry to grab the remote and turn up the volume. 

“An all-points bulletin has been issued and it appears, at least for the time being, the Saints have been cleared as suspects for the priest's killing.” 

A rush of relief floods over me – a kind I haven't felt since Trevor's death. I press the on button on the coffee maker and nearly sprint back to the bedroom. Murphy lies still, his legs tangled in the blankets. As much as I want to jump into the bed with him and scream the good news into his ear, I decide against it. He's gotten as much sleep as I have. Probably less, for all I know. So instead, I tiptoe to his side, run my hand through his hair, and kiss his cheek. 

His eyelids flutter open for a moment before he realizes where he is. “Hey, Riddles,” he greets me, his voice cracked with sleep. 

“Shh, go back to sleep,” I whisper, planting a kiss on his forehead. “I love you.”

(-)

After Murphy leaves to meet Connor and Romeo, I shower, get myself dressed, throw back a cup or four of coffee, and make my way toward McGinty's. Strangely, the usually busy sidewalks are nearly empty. It almost feels like eight years all over again, when fear of the Saints caused people to stay inside or pack up their families altogether and make their way elsewhere. Even the homeless are missing.

McGinty's is dead silent when I arrive. Doc stands behind the counter and gives me a somber smile as I close the door behind me. “Wh-What are ya d-d-doin' here, lass?” he questions, his hands trembling as he cleans a shot glass. 

“Oh, I got the day off today,” I lie. I run my hand against the nearest table, cringing at the small ridges I feel. Scrubbing the tables is obviously my first task of the day. “Figured I'd help out while the boys are out doing their thing.” Luckily, Doc doesn't question me any further on this.

I jump into my work as soon as I can, knowing it'll take my mind off everything. Tracey pops into my head as I count the cash in the register; something Doc can't do anymore because he can't see which damn bill he's holding. I find myself wishing I'd given up on my job long ago. Working here alongside Doc gives me a better sense of purpose than the call center ever did. Even though the pub is empty for the time being, I'd rather help out an old man than bother people over the phone about their debts. 

“H-Has he pro-proposed yet?” Doc suddenly asks as he carries two bottles of red wine up from the cellar. I drop the cash and rush to his side, taking them from his grasp to give him a chance to grab onto the side of the bar. His breathing is ragged, as if he'd just run four miles. _“Fuck! Ass!”_

“Proposed?” I repeat with an awkward laugh. “Quit that shit, Fuck-Ass. Murphy isn't the marrying type. I mean, have you noticed what he does for a living?” I place the wine into the holders underneath the bar and curl my hands around Doc's arm to help him settle onto a stool. 

“Ah, lassie, but h-he's been talkin' ab-about it t-to me,” Doc confesses. My heart plummets into my stomach. Marriage? Sure, I'd thought of it before, but that's all it was: a thought. I don't even know if I'd make a good wife. Hell, I still screw up making coffee half the time. “Sa-Says when this is all over, h-he's gonna p-p-put a ring on yer f-finger and t-take ya back to Ireland with him.”

“Real funny,” I murmur, my mind beginning its travel to a new place – a place where I'm a wife and Murphy is my husband and I no longer find coffee grounds floating in our coffee. Excitement swirls inside me as I return to counting the money. As hard as I try to keep track of how many ones and fives I have in my hands, I continuously forget about what I'm doing and picture myself in Ireland, surrounded by miniature versions of Murphy and myself. 

Doc doesn't reply, but a long, sleepy breath escapes his mouth. Slowly, I approach him and kneel so that the glare doesn't block his eyes through his glasses. His eyes are shut tight and I wonder if I should lead him to his bedroom or just let him sleep there. Finally, I come to the conclusion that if he can sleep standing up with a goofy grin on his face, he can sleep sitting down, so I return to my work. 

For a short time, I'm able to push out the thought of marrying Murphy by replacing it with worry. He'd told me the plan on our way to my apartment earlier this morning and it left me with an uneasy feeling in my gut. The whole thing just seemed so hastily put together: an all-out, full frontal assault on Yakavetta and his men while the detectives and Romeo distracted everyone else in the building. It all sounded so simple that it left a million and five spots where something could go wrong. 

The day flies by in a blur without so much as one customer. Doc sleeps through most of it while I clean around him. When he finally does stir awake, he hops off the stool and limps over toward the silverware bundles that I haven't started on yet. I watch him like a hawk. His hands shake too much to properly polish them and wrap them in napkins.

“Why don't you go back to polishing glasses?” I suggest, taking the silverware from his hands. “I've got this. Besides, I always leave streaks on the mugs.” 

A warm, grandfatherly smile extends across Doc's face. He curls his hands around mine, completely engulfing them in skin that almost feels like thin paper. “You're s-so good, la-lass.”

The door to the pub opens and I'm immediately searching for something I can use to stab someone with. The best I have at the moment is a dull butter knife, so I grip it and turn to face whoever walked through the door. Connor and Murphy stand breathless but smiling. I drop the knife to the floor and practically throw myself at Murphy. He catches me sloppily and laughs against the crook of my neck. 

“How'd it go?” I ask. “Obviously pretty okay since you're standing here, right?” 

His lips crash onto mine and I can taste the seven cigarettes he probably smoked on the way here. “I love ya, Riddles,” he mumbles against my lips. He takes a step away from me and for a moment, I'm horrified that he's going to drop to one knee and pull a ring box from his pocket. Instead, he pats Connor on the back and pulls me in closer. 

After everything calms and the high of killing wears off, the boys both take a stool at the bar and begin cleaning the blood off their guns. I take a seat next to Doc on a nearby booth seat, aiding his hands as he stubbornly polishes the silverware. 

“We weren't able to get 'im,” Connor admits as he lifts his gun to his face to closer inspect it. “The damned rat bastard snuck out 'fore we could get a bullet in his brain.” 

“And that little pudgy one,” Murphy chimes in, kicking the stool his brother is sitting on. “I have ya could've seen that little fucker run, Riddles. Funniest damned thing.” 

“And Romeo's line at the end?! Fuckin' perfect!” Connor adds. He drops his gun onto the counter and raises his pointer fingers in the air. “Ding-dong, motherfucker! Ding-dong!” His attempt at Romeo's voice is terribly pathetic that I can't help but burst into a fit of laughter, which startles Doc. 

The door flies open once more. This time, Greenly stands proudly, his hands at his junk. “Sack-o-matic, I said!” he shouts, a stupid grin growing wide on his face. I stand to rush to him in a hug, but suddenly, his grin drops and there's something not quite right about his clothes. Red spots appear on his shirt and expand wider. When I realize it's blood, my body freezes and his crumbles to the floor.

Everything seems to move in slow motion, almost as if I'm dreaming. The boys jump behind the bar as liquor bottles explode around them. I turn my head to look down at Doc and at the gun pressed against his temple. 

“Sit your ass down,” a thick Italian accented voice orders from behind me. I raise my hands slowly and do as he says, letting out a quick whimper as cold metal is pressed against my own head. How long had he been crouched behind the booth seat? 

Murphy and Connor stand from the bar, guns pointed toward the three of us, ready to fire bullet after bullet. They both watch us frantically, caught between wanting to shoot the man and not wanting to accidentally put a bullet through mine or Doc's skulls. 

“Put them down!” the man behind us shouts. Spittle lands on my shoulder. He lowers his head and growls in my ear, “Tell them. Tell them to throw them over.” 

“Throw the guns over here!” I scream without hesitation. The twins reply with a look of desperate confusion. “Just fucking do it!”

Murphy tightens his jaw and narrows his eyes in a fierce glower as he lowers his gun. Connor mimics his brother's movements, cursing under his breath. Simultaneously, they toss their guns over the bar and toward us. The man chuckles right against my ear, causing goosebumps to rise on my arms. I force out a breath through my nose and turn my head ever so slightly away from him. 

“Brothers, huh?” he sarcastically questions. “Oh, we're gonna have us some fun.” To rile Murphy, he nuzzles his nose into the side of my neck. I begin to struggle against him, but he presses the barrel of the gun harder against my temple. “So, which one first? Which one do you love more?”

A bright light flashes somewhere in the hallway to our left and suddenly, the man is hollering in pain. His gun, which I hurry to grab for myself, drops onto my lap. While he's busy caressing his hand, I stand and turn, pointing the gun at his chest. I want to feel some sort of surprise at who I'm looking at, but some part of me knew this was coming. Ottilio Panza, the same man who showed up at my door and the same man whose face I stared at on the news this morning, pushes Doc from him and curls over his bleeding hand. 

So many things happen all at once that I don't remember kneeling by Greenly's side, watching as he tries to speak to me as blood pours from his mouth. Somewhere behind me, there's someone new moving toward Panza, but I'm too focused on trying to keep the blood from leaking over the side of Greenly's mouth to take a moment to look back. 

“Doc!” Connor screams. Coming out of my panicked haze, I realize the twins are also at my side, probably trying to do the same thing I'm doing: keep Greenly calm even though we're far from it. “Doc! Call a fuckin' ambulance right now!”

I tilt my head upward to see if Doc even heard him over Panza's shrieking, but instead my eyes settle on a large bear of a man. “Noah?” I whisper. There's a buzz in my head. Why is Murphy and Connor's father here, of all places and of all times? 

“Stay there, Ridley,” Noah orders, his eyes not wavering from Panza. The smaller man stops his hollering and stares up at Noah as if he's some sort of god. Face framed by a glorious mane of wavy, silver hair, Noah towers over Panza with a certain fire in his eyes. “Where's the Old Man?”

“Never,” Panza spat. 

“R-Ridley.” Greenly's voice struggling to say my name casts me from the two men. I turn to him, curling my palm around his cheek. His lips tremble for a moment before curling into a smile. “Tell...your cousin,” he says, his voice lowering to a whisper, “that she was...probably...my first love.” 

The noise that escapes my mouth is a mix between a breathy laugh and a scoff of disbelief. Even seconds away from death, Greenly manages to say something so utterly idiotic that I catch myself wondering if he really just said that. “You're going to be fine,” I reply. “You'll be able to tell her yourself.” The look he casts back at me, though, makes it obvious that neither of us believe those words. 

“Da!” Connor hollers. I lift my gaze from Greenly to the twins, only to find them staring down their father and Panza. The two men both have a gun barrel resting on the others' forehead, their fingers on the triggers. While Panza sports a psychotic smile on his bleeding face, Noah looks as calm as ever. 

Without looking away from Panza, Noah addresses his sons, “Easy, boys.” 

Acknowledging the hardly noticeable nod from Noah, Panza's arm muscles tighten as his finger presses on the trigger. It takes everything in me to not leave Greenly's side and throw myself at Panza from behind. Nothing fires from the chamber, though, but the twins seem to have the same idea I do. They stand from the pool of blood gathering around us, yank their guns from the floor, and put them at Panza's temple. 

“I'm gonna blow this motherfucker's brains out right now!” Connor screams. The sound of his voice sends a chill down my spine. 

“Connor!” Noah bellows, his eyes shifting to the side at his son. He takes a moment to bring a heavy breath into his lungs. “Son,” he continues softly, “Daddy's workin'.”

I decide I can't stand to watch this anymore. Once the boys lower their guns and drop to their knees in prayer, I return to blinking tears out of my vision to look at Greenly. His eyes are closed, but his chest still rises and falls with his fleeting breaths. 

I still want to think this is a nightmare. Since meeting the detectives when I was younger, I'd never gone even a week without them. There were always bar nights and random texts shot back and forth to teasingly insult the other. Greenly had always been the best at it; his insults topped everyone else's. The moment I'd glanced at my phone at work and seen that he had called me a “dicknose butt socket,” I knew I could never defeat him. 

_“Vi mi famoso!”_

A click of a trigger. I force my eyes shut and reach for Greenly's hand. He gives me a gentle squeeze, letting me know he's still kicking.

“Where?”

“No!”

Another click. 

“Where is he?!”

_“Vaffanculo!”_

Finally, a gun shot and the muffled sound of a body dropping. Greenly's hand drops from mine. I open my eyes and listen for breathing. His chest has stopped moving.


	22. Reunions

_Then._

“You're quite the screamer, ain't ya?!”

The moment the door of the trunk opened, my muffled screaming came to a sharp silence. Peering up at my captor, dark curly hair and a body that seemed just a tad overweight, I began to shriek again. My throat burned furiously from it and my wrists ached from my duct tape bindings behind my back, but I couldn't let myself give in. Hopefully a passerby would hear and come to my rescue. 

“Ah, shut it,” the man griped. He reached down toward me and took hold of my shoulders. Instinctively, I flailed against him, trying to rid myself of his grasp. “Knock it off, damn it!” he hissed. “We've got more men here than you'd like to know, so unless you want to have your head blown clean off, I suggest coming along quietly and without trying to throw elbows!” 

Realizing he was probably right, I allowed him to hoist me from the car. Once I was steady on my feet, I took a moment to glance up at the building before me. I'd never seen a house – no, this was a mansion – so well-maintained and beautiful. As the man led me up the stairs, I took notice of how precise the shrubs had been trimmed and how clean the two windows on each side of the double doors looked. The doors themselves were so colossal and wide that they made me feel like an ant walking through them. 

Inside, I was greeted by a clean-shaven, balding man. Upon seeing me, he extended his arms outward while a grin spread across his face. “Ridley!” he shouted as if we were long-time friends, his voice thick with an Italian accent. “So good to see you, my dear!” 

A hand reached over my shoulder and tore the duct tape from my mouth. I inhaled a sharp breath, waiting for the stinging around my lips to fade before saying anything. When it finally did dull, I glanced about the mansion. So pristine, without any trash or dust anywhere. “Look, there has to be some sort of mistake,” I pleaded, focusing on the balding man in front of me. His smile remained stubbornly etched on his face. “I don't know any of you.” 

“Oh, but we know you,” he countered. As he spoke, he opened a glass cabinet to his left and grabbed for a gun. He polished it slowly, a glistening sort of pride in his gaze. “Yes, we've been watching you for some time, you know. My condolences for your child.” 

The mentioning of my son lit a fire inside me. Whoever this jackass was had absolutely no right to bring that up, but seeing as my hands were tied together and his hands sported a gun, I decided against telling him to fuck off. “I don't know you,” I repeated. “And you don't know me.”

To my horror, the man aimed the gun at me and stared down the sights. “My name is Giuseppe Yakavetta, but you can just call me Papa Joe,” he murmured before chuckling at the way my body froze. Placing the barrel under my chin, he lifted my head slightly. “And you...you are Ridley Elandria Gillespie. Born and raised in Sacramento, California to Blair and Jared Gillespie. No criminal background, but then again, you haven't been caught yet. Current affiliation to the Saints and current girlfriend to Murphy MacManus. I say current because, well, they'll be dead soon because you're going to lead them right to us.” 

My stomach lurched at his words. How in the hell could he know my parents' names and my hometown? Unless he was able to tap into some FBI database. I opened my mouth to speak my defense, but the thought of Murphy, Connor, and Rocco dying made my mouth run dry. Instead, I stayed quiet. 

“Feed the girl!” Papa Joe ordered suddenly, his eyes dragging away from mine and the gun lowering to his side. “She looks like she's going to pass out at any moment! We need her awake if we're going to use her.”

The man who had taken me from the car locked his hand around my forearm and led me down a hallway. My body felt numb, as if I didn't have any organs keeping me alive. If the boys were to die, it would be my fault. There was absolutely nothing I could do to help, except...

“Hey,” I muttered once I was seated at an elegant glass table. The dark-haired man turned his back to me as he rummaged through a gigantic fridge. “Hey, can I ask you something?” 

“Shut it.”

“I just want to know your name, is all,” I lied. “I mean, if we're going to be eating together, I should know your name, right?” 

Sighing in annoyance, he grabbed for a carton of milk and a box of Cheerios from the counter to his left. “Geno,” he responded simply. Okay, that was a start. 

“Geno,” I echoed, watching him put the bowl of cereal in front of me. “That's a nice name. _Geno._ Well, Geno, I can't really eat with my hands tied like this.” I really hoped that would be hint enough that he should unbind me, but I should've known he wasn't that stupid. With a roll of his eyes, Geno took the decorative spoon, fished out a few Cheerios from the bowl, and held it to my mouth. 

The very last thing I was was hungry, but if I was going to get anywhere with this guy, I needed to comply. Disdainfully, I forced my mouth open and let him drop the Cheerios onto my tongue. I hadn't had cereal in years and the moment the honey taste invaded my mouth, I wondered why I'd given it up. Then the taste of the milk came, and I remembered why. 

“Look, Geno,” I started after swallowing my spoonful. “I have a proposition for you.” Geno refused to make eye-contact with me, but he placed the spoon on the table. “I'm really good at what I do,” I continued, the words tasting more disguising than the milk on my tongue. “I mean, really good. And the whole thing about me being Murphy's girlfriend? That's definitely not true, so I'm just throwing it out there, I am single. I've been watching you since we got here and I'm down if you're down.” 

His eyes flashed to meet mine. “Down?” he questioned. God, what an idiot.

Ignoring my urge to pound my head on the table, I winked and offered the sultriest smirk I could muster. “Wanna fuck?” 

In an instant, Geno grabbed the spoon and ladled up more Cheerios. “You're too young for me. And you ain't even that pretty.” 

Huffing, I sat back in the chair and moved my mouth away from the spoon. “Fuck you, then.”

(-)

“We got 'em! We got 'em! They knew she was here! It worked!”

Turning his head toward the door, Geno lazily stared at another one of Papa Joe's men, who had nearly kicked the door open in excitement. After nearly twenty minutes of awkwardly sitting in silence with the guy and refusing to eat anymore Cheerios, I was more than ready to be away from Geno. 

My fear and anxieties had calmed down about ten minutes into the silence. I'd figured that the boys wouldn't be stupid enough to come chasing after me, or that they weren't smart enough to figure out where I was being held captive. Unfortunately, I'd both over and underestimated them. 

“No shit?” Geno answered as he stood to grab onto me once more. 

“Yeah shit! They're in the basement! Papa Joe said to throw the bitch in there with 'em so she can watch!” 

Desperately, I lashed against Geno. Without duct tape covering my mouth, I was able to get a few good bites in, but not hard enough to break his skin. After watching us tussle for a few moments, the other lackey decided to help and curled his arms around my neck so roughly that I couldn't turn my head. Barely being able to breathe, I was led down another hallway and to a heavy door. Geno opened it with ease and the other shoved me inside. I tripped over my own foot and slammed hard onto the dirty concrete floor. 

“Riddles!” 

Struggling to pull myself onto my knees, I looked to my right. Murphy, Connor, and Rocco sat bloodied and bruised, handcuffed to chairs. Just the sight of them alive brought tears of relief to my eyes. 

“H-Hey, Riddles, quit cryin'!” Connor called out, his words bouncing off the walls of the basement. “Everythin' is gonna be okay, okay? We found ya and we're gonna get the hell outta here!”

“I'm just...so happy you...guys are alive,” I replied between hiccuping sobs. “We have to get...out of here. F-Fuckin' Yakavetta...planned this whole thing.” 

“Man, fuck that guy!” Rocco bellowed. Trashing about in his chair, he tried his hardest to stomp his feet into the ground, but another pair of handcuffs circled his ankles. “FUCK YOU, YAKAVETTA! YA HEAR ME?! FUCK YOU!”

I sat against the wall, trying to rid myself of my hiccups. For what felt like years, the four of us sat there in silence, waiting for someone to start talking. I watched Murphy the entire time. The way he frantically looked about for an exit, the way his eyes finally settled on me, and the way something about his gaze changed. His body calmed and slouched against the chair, as if he were giving up. 

“Ridley,” he said. It felt odd hearing him say my actual name. “I love you.” 

Any other time Murphy has said that to me had sent butterflies into my stomach and left a goofy grin on my face. This time, the way he said it with his words so full of sadness and regret – it felt as if my heart had plummeted. I couldn't even bring myself to say anything to him.

The door to my right flung open, just barely missing me by a few inches. In the blink of an eye, the basement was crowded by Papa Joe and his men. They circled the boys, wrapping their arms around their necks to restrain them the same way I had been. One of the men I didn't recognize held a gun at my head and warned me that he'd put a bullet through my brain if I tried any shit. 

Shouts filled the small space, my own included once I saw a fist land in Murphy's face. Blood spewed from his mouth and nose, and landed on his shirt and the floor. Connor kicked about wildly, trying to hit anything he could reach. Rocco, however, seemed to me the main point of interest; three men held him in place while Yakavetta held up a hand and attempted to quiet everyone. 

“Shh, shh, shh!” he hissed. “Everyone, shut the fuck up!” He approached Rocco, muttering something in a language I couldn't understand, and smiled down at him. “You have some answers for me, no?”

“Yeah,” Rocco replied through heavy breaths. “Fuck you!” 

Nodding to one of his men, Papa Joe took a step back. As the man held Rocco's hand up, as if to show off the fact that his pinky had been blown off, Rocco began to struggle about once more. The twins shouted above his booming curses and threats, telling him to look at one of them. The moment Papa Joe lifted his gun to the remaining stump of a finger, I closed my eyes and bowed my head. I couldn't watch anymore. 

The gunshot that rang out around us felt like a fist to the gut. Without lifting my head, I started to scream and scream until fingers wrapped in my hair and a palm collided with my cheek. Geno stared me down, his knees bent into a crouch at my level. “Quit your fuckin' screamin' or you'll be next,” he threatened. 

As Papa Joe and his men left the basement, Rocco continued to shriek in agony. Over the sound of my heart pounding away in my ears, I could barely hear Connor trying to get his attention. “Rocco! Calm down! Yer fine!” Still, Rocco continued to holler. 

Not even a full minute after leaving, Papa Joe opened the door once more. This time, he said nothing. His actions did all the talking. As if it were a pain in the ass to do it, he strolled toward Rocco, lifted the gun toward his chest, and pulled the trigger. Then, without so much as a second glance back at the man he just shot, Papa Joe turned around and gave me a courteous nod as he exited the basement again. 

The twins exploded with tears and screams as they wrestled against their bindings. While I hoisted myself to my feet, my mind feeling as though it had completely left my body, the chairs they sat in toppled over, allowing them to lie next to Rocco. Knees trembling, I made my way over toward them and stood watching. I couldn't react. It was as if every emotion in me had been fried. 

Curling himself against Rocco the best he could, Murphy whimpered a soft plea, begging him to stay with us. Rocco's eyes hazily blinked as he took his time looking at each of our faces. “Y-You can't st-stop,” he groaned. “You g-get out of here. Do-Don't ever stop.”

As Rocco pulled in his final breath, Murphy glanced sideways at me, his own tears dried on his cheeks. For a moment, I could've sworn I knew what was racing through his mind: first Trevor, then the baby, and now Rocco. Next, it would be us.

“Rocco!” Connor sobbed, still lashing out against his chair. In the time that I had been lost in Murphy's gaze, I'd almost forgotten about the other twin, who had been making noise this entire time. “You motherfuckers! I'm gonna kill ya!”

Head buzzing, I took a small step back. “We have to get out of here,” I said. I wasn't actually sure if any words had come from my mouth. I could've just imagined it. I turned toward Connor and kicked the side of his chair so he's stop yelling. “Bite through the duct tape,” I ordered. “Hurry up, before they come back in here and decide to kill us too!” 

Connor didn't hesitate to do what I said. It only took a few awkward moments, but once I was free, I felt like a completely new person. Setting Murphy's chair upright, I wriggled the handcuffs from the legs so he had free access to his feet again. “Kick the backs of the chair, lass,” Connor instructed, jutting his chin toward the metal that kept the second pair of handcuffs in place. Luckily, the chairs weren't very sturdy, so only a few good slams of my feet were enough to snap the metal in half. As I worked at it, Murphy yelled in pain; the metal scraped against his back harshly. 

Once he was freed, Murphy took it upon himself to assault the back of Connor's chair. While they tumbled about, I broke off a piece of Murphy's chair and used it to bang on the door of the basement, shouting that I needed help in the most horrified voice I could find within me. Footsteps rushed toward us and when the door opened, everything seemed to slow to a blur. 

I jammed the sharp metal into the stomach of the man who opened the door and immediately pressed my hand to his mouth to muffle his moans. After lowering him to the ground, I shut the door to the basement, leaving a sticky, bloody hand print around the knob. By the time I turned back to the man, he'd already passed in a pool of his own blood. 

Thinking on it, I should've been much more shocked than I was. I'd just killed my second person, and yet I felt practically nothing. He was someone's son, or someone's father or husband. Then again, Rocco could have been those things too. 

Rummaging through his clothing, I finally landed my hand on a tiny key. Praying that it was the right one, I rushed to Murphy, yanked him still, and pressed it into the narrow keyhole on his handcuffs. They opened and I let out a breath of relief.

“Good job, Riddles,” he whispered, planting his lips in my frazzled hair. 

While I moved on to free Connor, Murphy dropped to his knees next to Rocco's body, curling his fingers around Rocco's hand. Connor kept his stare locked on his brother and mimicked his movements once his own handcuffs had dropped to the floor with a loud clatter. “Rocco...Oh, Rocco...”

I watched them lift the body onto the only chair that remained intact throughout the whole quarrel. Leaning Rocco's head backward, the twins placed pennies over his eyes and knelt before him, lowering their heads into a bow. 

“ _And Shepherds we shall be for Thee, my lord, for Thee,_ ” they began simultaneously. 

Part of me felt as if I were intruding on something sacred. Sure, I'd heard the prayer and watched them perform it before, but never for someone like Rocco – for someone what was a friend. Backing from them, I made my way toward the door. 

“ _Power hath descended forth from Thy hand._ ” 

I gently pulled the door open only to be greeted with a gun barrel to my chest. Before me, towering over me by three feet, stood the man who single-handedly attacked and chased us from the home of my son's murderer. I froze, staring into the dark glasses that reflected nothing but my horrified expression. With his free hand, he lifted a finger to his mouth, silently telling me not to make a noise. Without making so much of a grunt of effort, he curled his arm around my neck and held the gun to my temple. 

“ _Our feet may swiftly carry out Thy comma--_ ”

The sound of the man's gun cocking stopped the twins short. As they turned to face us, I lifted my hands in surrender. Instead of putting a bullet through me, the man dropped his arm and the gun and started walking past me.

“ _So we shall flow a river forth unto Thee and teeming with souls shall it ever be,_ ” the man continued, reaching up to take the glasses from his face. Like the twins, an Irish accent shone through in his words proudly. “ _In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti._ ”

Slowly, he approached the twins and cupped their cheeks in each of his hands. They stared up at him as if they were seeing the light for the very first time. Then, Murphy's mouth opened and I realized I'd never even thought to ask about it.

“Da.”


	23. Go Deo Le Leat

_Now._

I dream of Shauna and her fiery hair that always sneaks it's way into her mouth when she laughs or eats. She giggles next to Romeo's side at McGinty's and as he peers down on her, that same idiotic grin spreads across his bearded face. She suddenly lurches forward, drops her head downward to look at the crimson stain expanding from a rip in her clothing at her stomach, and lifts her head back up toward me. 

Romeo isn't smiling anymore, and she has a strand of hair in her mouth.

My own stomach aches as my eyes shoot open. A dark room engulfs me, the windows blocked out by blankets. Sitting up from the couch, I anxiously glance around for the twins. The only person in the living room besides myself is Romeo, who is sprawled out on a recliner, booming snores rumbling from his mouth.

For a moment, I almost forget how I got to Romeo's uncle's home. Then, like a slap to the face, it comes back – Greenly's final breaths, Panza's body crumpling to the floor, Noah dragging me from McGinty's as I screamed for my friend and lashed against him. After that, it's a blur with the exception of Murphy lying me down on the couch and kissing my forehead repeatedly. 

Part me of thinks it's another dream, but I vaguely remember Murphy constantly sitting on the floor near the couch, stoking my hair and whispering things that don't make much sense to me. His voice comes back like a ghost – soft and fading in and out. “I love ya, Riddles,” I think he said. “Once this is all over, we're gonna start over and do everythin' right.”

I can hear muffled voices from the next room. Standing to my feet, I realize just how sore my body is. The muscles in my arms burn as I push myself from the couch and my legs ache with every step I take closer to the shut door. 

“...do all the planning and I would do the other,” Noah says. The grim tone in his voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand. 

I think I can hear Murphy mutter something, but I can't make it out. Connor's voice, however, is loud and clear. “How'd ya end up inside, Da?”

“Back in '75, I did a piece of work,” Noah replies. He sounds hesitant. “I come out and the police was waitin' for me. He set me up. Twenty-five to life.”

“Why'd he set you up?” Hearing Murphy fills me with relief. While I struggled against his father as they put me into a car to drive away, I'd been so worked up over Greenly that I couldn't hear anyone over the sound of my own screaming and curses. As much as I wanted Murphy to tell me everything was going to be okay at the time, I wouldn't let myself shut up long enough to listen for it. Now, it's one of the most angelic things I think I've ever heard. 

“I can't wait to ask him.”

I pull away from the door, suddenly feeling as if I'm invading on something personal between a father and his sons. Reaching into my pocket, I graze my hands on my phone. “Please don't be dead,” I whisper as I turn the screen on. Much to my surprise, the battery symbol flashes with a red tint, but at 13%, I figure I still have enough charge to make a call. 

Romeo stirs as I pass by the recliner. At first, I fear he's going to wake up and ask why I'm on my way toward the door outside. Luckily, he just rolls onto his side, farts, and mumbles something I can't understand as he falls back into a deep sleep. 

The sun is bright and blinding as I sneak out and gently close the door behind me. The heat makes me want to crawl back into the air conditioned house, but I don't want anyone to overhear my conversation. As I search for her number in my phone, I take countless glances over my shoulders. The twins are sneaky – a trait they must've inherited from their father. 

“Oh my God, Ridley, where are you?! Are you okay?! Jesus Christ, why the fuck didn't you call me earlier?!” Eunice screams into my ear. Not expecting this side of her, I flinch and nearly drop my phone. 

“I'm sorry, I just...” I close my eyes and take a minute to actually breathe. “I'm okay,” I tell her, even though I'm not sure if that's true. I begin my stroll away from the house and toward the street so nobody inside can hear me. Making a point not to go too far, I stop at the curb and start kicking at the grass and rocks. “We're at Romeo's uncle's house. Everyone's okay. I mean, except, y-y'know.” 

I know I must sound like I'm deranged or something, but Eunice understands anyway. “I know, baby cousin,” she replies, her tone so much softer now that she's done flipping out on me. “Greenly was a good guy.” I can hear the struggle in her voice and it just makes me feel a million times worse.

“I hate this, Eunice,” I admit, tears brimming my eyes. “I hate all of this. Everyone good is dying. Rocco died and now Greenly. Who's next? You, or me, or the boys, or Noah? I'm so fucking scared, Eunice. I don't want to leave anyone or have anyone separated from each other because I don't want anyone else to di--”

Black leather gloves push the phone from my face and curl around my mouth. My first reaction is to think that this is bullshit. All I wanted to do was call my cousin, and now I'm getting attacked? Absolute bullshit. My second reaction is to flail against whoever is pulling me toward them and tying my hands together with zip ties. Whoever they are, they're a lot bigger than me. I can't see any faces as I'm turned around to face them; dingy black masks cover their heads.

“Shut up or you won't make it five seconds,” one of the four warns me as he places a bandanna in my mouth to silence me.

I'm led to a gray, windowless van that just screams, “FREE CANDY!” for unsuspecting children. One of them yanks the door open, throws me in the back, and tells me not to try anything stupid. Even so, I wrestle against the zip ties, which does nothing but make my wrists sting with pain as the plastic digs into my skin. 

Finally, I give up and lean against the wall of the van. Two men sit up front, one of them cursing his head of as he pulls the steering wheel from side to side and rams his feet into the pedals. The other two men sit in the back with me, watching my every move. I stare them down, feeling more angry than scared. 

I should have known better than to leave the house. That's a given. But for shit's sake, couldn't somebody else get kidnapped for once?

(-)

We drive for what feels like hours. Nobody says a word and the two goons in the back with me refuse to take their eyes off me for even a second. Do they think I'm dangerous or something? That thought almost makes me try to laugh through the bandanna.

When the van finally comes to a complete stop, the driver barks something in another language. One of the men staring me down reaches over and grabs a tight hold of my arm. A twinging pinch on the underside of my forearm makes me squeal and try to struggle against him, but he pulls me close to his face and hisses deeply, “Knock your shit off or I'll slit your throat right here, got it?” His breath reeks of whiskey.

“We need her alive,” the driver reminds as he opens the door to his left and slips out of the van. 

The man holding me scowls for a moment before shoving me from the opening door. I inhale sharply as my knees skid into the cracked concrete below. Without giving me a moment to catch my breath and get over the stinging pain, the same man curls his fingers around the back of my shirt and steadies me to my feet. Lifting my head, I gaze upon the gigantic mansion before us, infested with vines crawling up every part of it. 

As I'm led through the building, I find myself almost in awe. Fauna decorates every corner of every room and hallway. It surrounds the furniture, hangs from the dusty chandeliers, and curls around the marble statues that look as though they've been pulled straight out of a Roman painting. If I wasn't so bitter and angry, I would let myself get lost in how beautiful, yet depressing and filthy the whole place looks. 

But that isn't the case and I want it all to burn. 

I'm pushed up countless flights of stairs. So many, in fact, that I eventually dig my heels into the edge of a stair to cause the two men behind me to halt when I do. Through ragged breathing and sweaty armpits, I realize just how out of shape I truly am. Unfortunately, I'm not given much time; a beefy hand urges me forward, and up more stairs I go.

Finally, we reach the rooftop, which is nothing more than another extensive view of plants of all different types. Greenhouses stand proudly about the roof, vines connecting them like power lines. In the middle of it all, on a concrete platform surrounded by one more small flight of stairs, is an old man sitting in a chair. Beside him is a circular dish of tomatoes and salt near an old record player, and in front of him is a fire pit separating him from another chair.

“Ah, there she is,” he greets me as we approach him. In his hand is a tomato, an X carved into one side and littered with salt. “You must forgive me for not standing to meet such beauty. My leg is rather...out of commission.” At the mention of his leg, my gaze drops to something metallic coming from the bottom of his right pant. He motions toward the man behind me, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Take that from her mouth! I wish to hear her voice!”

I whimper as hands tangle in my hair to untie the bandanna. When it falls, I feel almost like a new woman. I turn to glower at my captor, but he and his sidekick are already making their way down the stairs and back into the mansion. 

“Please, dear,” the old man says softly, “take a seat. I'm sure the ride here must have been very uncomfortable for you.” He places his hand on a chair identical to his near the tomato dish. I want to refuse, but something tells me to think twice about that. I don't know if he has a gun hidden away somewhere that he could just easily grab for and splatter my brains all over these plants. So, I do what he says. “There's a girl.”

I desperately try to find something to say, something that could help me get out of this mess. My lips tremble with unspoken words while I choose my next sentence carefully. “I don't think I know why I'm here,” I mutter. It's a lie, somewhat. I'm sure I'm here because of something that has to do with the twins. That's what it always is, but I'm not exactly sure this time.

A genuine smile grows on the old man's face. “The voice certainly does match the face. Everything about you screams beauty and grace, doesn't it, Ridley Elandria Gillespie?” 

The way he says my name makes my blood turn ice cold. We watch each other in silence as moments tick by. “How,” I ask, my voice nothing but a whisper, “do you know me?”

He chuckles to himself and grabs for another tomato. “Oh, my dear,” he replies in a way that reminds me of my grandfather. “I know so much about you. About your family.” I watch how he drives a knife into the tomato and the way the juice trickles onto the ground. Slowly, he presses the exposed part of the fruit into the salt and holds it to me. “Would you like one?” 

“No, thank you,” I reply automatically. Even if I wasn't in a state of confusion, I'd still turn down the offer. 

Giving a small shrug, he brings the tomato to his lips and takes a large bite. I almost shiver at the sight of the juice dripping into his wiry beard. “I'm sure you're wondering why you're here,” he says after swallowing. “I assure you that I mean you no harm, but I need you as bait. From what I understand, you're very good at playing that role.” 

That one single sentence is enough to make me lose my cool. “Look,” I snap, curling my fingers around the arms of the chair, “you think I like getting kidnapped by weird fuckin' guys like you? I didn't ask for it when I was twenty-one and I'm sure as hell not asking for it at twenty-nine.” For a moment, I'm struck with fear again, that maybe my lashing out might've just signed my death papers. Instead, his grin only grows.

“They were right about you,” he mumbles, adding more salt to his tomato. “You're a fiery one. I do not plan on keeping you hostage for any longer than I need you.” 

“And why do you need me?”

The sound of a branch snapping forces our attention away from each other and toward a giant man stalking toward us. Dressed purely in black, Noah carefully makes his way up the stairs and stops at the chair opposite from ours. His familiar glasses block his eyes from us, but I can feel his gaze locked on me, trying to see if he can see any harm done.

“I needed you to bring Noah right to me,” the old man finishes, his smile falling to a flat line. I look between the two, my heart pounding away in my ears.

“Hello, Louie,” Noah says. The same relief I felt earlier at the sound of Murphy's voice floods through me. Somewhere deep inside me, I begin to think that everything is going to be all right. “We haven't much time.”

Louie takes a moment to glance around, his blue pools meeting mine for only a short second. “My garden is...beautiful, is she not?” he questions. “Ah, but I forget your eyes are blind to beauty. You are a destroyer, Noah.”

Noah remains silent for a long while before turning his head toward me. “Let her go,” he orders. “Ridley has no reason to be mixed up in all this.” 

Louie's brows raise. “Oh, you sound so sure of that.”

“Let her go.” 

Another grin itching to show through, Louie reaches over with his knife and presses it onto the zip ties. “So be it.” Once the plastic falls from my wrists, I let out a long exhale that I'd been holding in while he sawed the blade back and forth. 

“But, Noah, I--” I start, but Noah raises a hand to silence me. 

“Go now, lass.” 

“But I--”

“ _Now._ ” 

I'd never been scared of Noah before, after I found out who exactly he was. He'd always been so gentle and calm with me that it gave me no doubt he would've acted the same way toward my son. But now, with the way he sits so rigidly and his voice so strained, the last thing I want to do is be around him. 

I stand from the chair and give Noah one last look. As I turn and place my foot on the first stair, my stomach lurches. I don't want to leave him alone with Louie, but what good can I do? There's obviously something I don't understand happening between them and as it is now, I'd just get in the way. 

Passing by one of the greenhouses, I hear a horrid screeching noise sound from the horn of the record player, followed by the dismal singing of a man who speaks a language I can't put my finger on. Then, like clockwork, gunshots fire out from all around me, shattering the glass of the greenhouses and throwing dirt into the air. Covering my ears, I drop to my knees and let out a scream. 

Realizing that I can't stay here forever trying to block everything out, I glance up and through the shattering of statues, I see someone sprint by, and then another. “There's more,” I whisper to myself. If I can find the other people running around here, maybe I can find my way out of the gunfire. 

Counting down from three in my head, I take off sprinting toward of the doorways on the far side of the roof. My strides are cut short, however, as a corpse falls into me. After a moment of shock, I recognize him as the jackass who got in my face earlier to threaten me. His gun slides across the concrete pathway and I waste no time shoving his heavy body from me and grabbing for it. Luckily, there are still bullets in it and I pray it's enough to get me out of here. 

Above all the gunshots and the ringing in my ears, I vaguely hear Romeo's loud mouth to my right. “MOTHERFUCKER!” he screams as a series of three more shots boom. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” I hiss as I pick up my pace again toward him. Something nicks my ear and I can feel the warm blood trickle down my cheek and onto my shoulder. Turning to see what exactly had just happened, I face a man not twenty feet from me, his gun aimed at my head. Everything seems to slow to a blur. I curl both hands around my gun, raise my sights, and pull the trigger. His throat explodes with the same crimson mess that has painted the plants and greenhouses and his body crumples to the ground. 

I stand still in my tracks, my arms like stone as I listen to the silence around me. I want to lower the gun, but my body won't listen to my brain. My head spins and it feels as though the sky is falling down on me. I want to throw up and for a second, I think I'm going to. And then I hear Murphy's voice calling for his brother. 

“Murphy?” I whisper. My body seems to put itself into check. Completely forgetting the man I just killed, I take off sprinting toward where I heard his voice from. “Murphy?! Murph, where are you?!” A single gunshot sounds and my legs move faster than they ever have before. “MURPHY?! CONNOR?!” 

When I finally do find them, my gun falls from my hand. The twins kneel before their father, holding his head up with their hands as they cry only inches from his face. “No, Da, please,” Connor whimpers. “God, no!”

Hesitantly, I approach them, the sounds of their pleas ripping my heart into pieces. The closer I get, the more bullet holes in Noah I can see. It was as if he was specifically aimed for and that idea alone makes me want to kill more men. 

“Look!” Noah struggles out. His eyes are locked on the sky above, which no longer feels like it's falling down on me. “Look, boys. Ridley...you're here too. Oh, Ridley, look.” The three of us tilt our heads upward to see what exactly he's talking about. There's nothing in the sky but a single cloud. “It's so beautiful. It's a beautiful day.”

Connor and I look back toward Noah, but Murphy's tear-filled eyes linger on me for a fleeting moment. “It is, Da,” he whispers, bringing his gaze back down to his father. “It is.” 

Noah's chest stops moving, his gaze cast into the sky.

(-)

“Riddles, please.”

“I-I can't, Murphy! I don't want to leave you!”

I feel as though my chest is too tight around my lungs. Breathing feels like fire and my throat is ripped from all my screaming protests. Murphy stands in front of me, blood dried on his forehead and his eyes puffy from crying. He grabs my forearms and presses his mouth onto mine, which only forces another hysteric cry from me. 

“I'll be back for ya, okay?” Murphy says as he places his forehead on mine. I try to distract myself from the fact that he's disappearing to god knows where yet again by focusing on Connor's sobs and Romeo's badgering that they have to go. “I promise. It won't be like last time.”

“Please, Murph,” I beg, my voice hoarse. “Don't do this to me again. Bring me with you. I can't do this again!” Above my own voice, I can hear sirens approaching. Connor falls silent for a moment, but Romeo grows more urgent in trying to get him away from Noah's body. 

“Listen to me,” Murphy growls, cupping my face in his hands. “Ya can't get mixed up in whatever's gonna happen to us. Ya don't deserve it. Ya deserve better, and I'm gonna give ya better when I come back for ya. I just...I just ya to wait for me. Can ya do that for me, Riddles?” His eyes begin to brim with tears once more. I can't have him think he's losing me again.

“I can do that,” I finally say. I feel defeated, but I also know there's no winning against him when he's like this. 

He kisses me one last time. “I love ya, Riddles.” I can taste the saltiness from both our tears on our lips, but I refuse to pull away from him. It's Murphy who finally backs away and places another kiss on my forehead. “ _Go deo le leat._ ” 

“Forever with you,” I answer back as he pushes me toward the stone fence I'm to jump and escape over. I start at a slow walk and pick up my pace as the sirens come closer and louder. Before I know it, I'm struggling to pull myself over the edge, but three pairs of hands are waiting to aid me. 

“C'mon, baby cousin,” Eunice coos as she, Dolly, and Duffy yank me over the top. Once I'm on the other side, she pulls me in a tight hug and lets me cry and cry and cry until I forget how.


	24. Forever With You

_Then._

“...with my mother! We were at the _genovese_ – the butcher – because on Thursdays, she makes a gnocchi for--” 

Liar. What a fuckin' liar. And he wasn't even a good one either.

Sitting among the rest of the jury duty, I kept my hands clasped tightly in my lap, fighting the urge to reach under my pencil skirt and grab for the gun strapped to my leg. I couldn't give away my position yet, though. My own selfish desires would too easily toss all the hard work Smecker, Greenly, Dolly, and Duffy had to go through to actually get me on jury duty and sneak me in with a weapon on my person. 

Besides, even if I did stand from the crowd and fire a bullet into his head, Yakavetta would have no idea who I was. Three months was a long enough time to grow my hair out a few inches, bleach it, and become decently skilled at applying layers of makeup to my face to cover what I truly looked like. I wanted him to know why I put an end to his life, not wonder why this barely familiar woman has gone AWOL inside a courtroom. 

“I don't know where I was,” Yakavetta finally admitted with a light chuckle. Perched at the judge's left, he looked so small and powerless in comparison. As hard as he tried to make himself seem so carefree and innocent, I could see beads of sweat forming on his gigantic forehead. 

I'd never absolutely abhorred somebody so much. Not Trevor, who literally beat the shit out of me for every wrong thing that happened in his life. Not my parents, who screamed and scolded me every second they got for ending up with someone like Trevor. Not Murphy, who would ultimately break my heart. I wanted Yakavetta destroyed in the worst, slowest way possible. I wanted to rip his fingernails from his hands, remove his limbs one at a time, and then finally set fire to his still breathing body.

And yet, I couldn't. I would never be able to because the boys had claim. I did, however, have all rights to put a bullet in anyone's head who thought otherwise. I planned on exercising that right in place of the man I couldn't kill. 

With a wave of gasps and shouts of surprise all around me, the double doors to the courtroom flung open, slamming against the walls behind them. They were early, I thought. They were supposed to wait five more minutes, but I knew them better than to think they'd hold off when they were eager to do something. 

“You! Get to the back!” Noah led his sons through the sea of people who clamored over themselves and others to get away from the intruders. Over the last three months, I'd been able to spend more time with the giant beast of a man. Never would I have imagined that the same person who shot off Rocco's finger and nearly killed his sons and myself with a hailstorm of bullets could've been such a gentle, loving father. 

I had opened my apartment to him while we prepared for this trial. During that time, my home, which had been nothing but reminders of fear and cigarette burn scars, turned into something I'd wanted all along: a place where I wanted to be, where people I considered family gathered every night to drink, laugh, and poke fun at each other. Even the detective trio had formed the habit of popping up unexpectedly for hastily planned poker nights or to watch a game on TV that nobody cared much about after one too many drinks. 

Once, when Murphy had kissed me in front of his father, I'd almost expected some sort of scolding to not show that sort of affection when there were others present. My own parents had never been big on PSA and often told Trevor and I to save it for the bedroom. Unfortunately, they didn't realize that other than sex, punches and kicks were performed in the bedroom. Noah, however, had simply grinned and pulled the two of us into a strong embrace. 

“Ya did good, Murph,” he had muttered into his son's ear before turning to me. “Welcome to the family, Riddles.”

As Murphy yanked Yakavetta from his stand, I stood from the crowd and grabbed for my gun, wincing as the duct tape ripped from my thigh. “Get the camera, Riddles!” Connor shouted over all the screaming, jabbing his pointer finger toward a cameraman huddled near the corner. 

Shoving my way past shrieking women and men trying to hide behind each other, I took hold of the cameraman by the collar of his shirt and pressed the barrel of my gun to his cheek. “Turn it the fuck off now!” I shouted. Instead of doing what I said, however, he simply dropped it and watched as it shattered against the hardwood floor. 

“Pl-Please don't shoot,” he whimpered, his frail voice giving away the fact maybe he wasn't quite as old as I thought he was. With a face sporting a lush mustache and what I thought were signs of beginnings of crows feet from far away, I'd just assumed he was in his late fifties. Up close, he couldn't have been any older than thirty-five. “My d-daughter just graduated kindergarten!” He flinched away from the gun, his entire body trembling in my grasp.

It felt as if someone had punched right through my stomach. “I-I'm not going to shoot,” I admitted. “Just...Fuck, go stand over there and don't do anything stupid!” Taking my finger from the trigger, I used it and my other hand to push him toward a group of cowering civilians.

Movement from the seats above caught my attention. Two security guards had migrated together, both with undeniable bewildered expressions written on their faces. Connor, who stood not ten feet behind me, pointed his gun toward them. “Up top!” he hollered. “Drop your guns one at a time! Now!”

Apparently knowing better than to go against the words of a man aiming for their heads, they obeyed. As their guns fell at my feet, I wasted no time grabbing for them and throwing one to Connor. “Good job, lass,” he complimented with a dry smile. My heart was beating too painfully to say anything back. 

Murphy, who had dropped Yakavetta to his knees in the center of the courtroom, brought the hand that wasn't pressing a gun to the man's head to his mouth. To get my attention, a sharp whistle rang out from between his lips and fingers. “Go stand over there!” he ordered, pointing toward a row of seats. I eyed Yakavetta bitterly, thinking of how badly I wanted to be the one to end him, but Murphy's lingering glare wavered my attention. “Now, Riddles!”

Internally pouting, I did as he said and made my way to the seats, where a few girls who couldn't have been any older than me sat huddled together. While the majority of them locked their gazes on Yakavetta and the twins, one of them curled in on herself, her hands shielding her eyes. 

“You people have been chosen to reveal our existence to the world!” Noah boomed, his mighty voice causing even me to jolt in surprise. As he spoke, he paced the floor with a gun in his hand, his gaze meeting the eyes of every person who looked his way. “You will witness what happens here today and you will tell of it later!”

“Hey,” I whispered, tapping the girl who refused to look up on the shoulder. With curly scarlet locks and freckles littering her face, she truly was a beautiful girl. “Why aren't you paying attention? This is important.” I formed my hand to the side of her face and force her to turn her head. She didn't struggle against me. 

Through his whimpering, Yakavetta peered up at the group of watchers who had seated themselves on the side of the room where his family sat. “Now's a good time to fucking--”

“Shut yer fuckin' mouth!” Murphy snarled, lifting his foot and delivering it into his back. With a cry of pain, Yakavetta rammed his face into the floor. Connor reached down and yanked the blathering man back up onto his knees. Out in the hallway, the fire alarm sounded. That was supposed to have been the cue.

Once Noah had secured Yakavetta, the twins rushed the crowds, pointing their guns at anyone who looked their way. “Now you will receive us!” Connor declared.

“We do not ask for your poor or your hungry!” Murphy continued. 

“We do not want your tired and sick!”

“It is your corrupt we claim!”

“It is your evil that will be sought by us!”

Standing there, watching the twins deliver their speech, lit something inside me. I glanced around, at every terrified face and every person praying for their safety. How many people here had murdered at some point in their lives or held someone down while they performed some unwanted sexual act on them? Who was to say that every single person in this courtroom didn't have a reason to die today? 

“With every breath, we shall hunt them down!”

“Each day, we will spill their blood 'til it rains down from the skies!”

“Do not kill, do not rape, do not steal! These are principles which every man of every faith can embrace!”

“These are not polite suggestions! These are cores of behavior and those of you that ignore them will pay the dearest cost!”

Even I had a reason to be put down. I had killed and looked upon someone as they were being killed, and yet did nothing until the act had been done. I'd wished death on other people and even thought of ways to end them myself.

“There are varying degrees of evil! We urge you lesser forms of filth not to push the bounds and cross over into true corruption in our domain!”

“For if you do, one day you will look behind you will see we three! And on that day, you will reap it!”

“And we will send you to whatever God you wish.”

Was I any better than the man on his knees here -- the man who was suddenly surrounded by the MacManus family? As the twins made their way back to their father, they stood on either side of him. Murphy's gaze lifted to me and a simple nod told me, “It's happening now. Look away if you need.”

I didn't.

“ _And shepherds we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for Thee,_ ” the three chanted in unison. “ _Power hath descended forth from Thy hand that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command._ ” Yakavetta began to pray and I nearly let out a laugh. “ _So we shall flow a river forth to Thee and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti._ ” 

As Yakavetta's body crumbled to the floor, his blood splattering out against the floor and my high heels, I decided that I didn't have a reason to be put down. Everything I did and allowed to happen was for specific reasons. Trevor's death, my son's death, Rocco's death, Yakavetta's death. Those were why people died and had to die with nobody to stop them. 

Not even the gunshot hurt my ears, which was a first. 

Everyone else, though, didn't quite have the same reaction I did. Instead of just standing there, witnessing what had just happened with a smile planted on their faces, they ran. Ignoring the fact that I had a gun in plain sight, they rammed into me as they made their way for the door. I took this as my sign to cling onto Murphy.

“Riddles,” he breathed, his mouth crashing onto mine. For a moment, I thought he was going to keep me there like I wanted. Alongside his brother and father, we'd place pennies over Yakavetta's eyes and make a run for it. Instead, he pulled me closer, savoring this unbeknownst last moment we'd have together, before taking a step from me. “Ya have to go with the crowd.”

“What?!” I snapped in disbelief. I wanted to argue against him, but he'd left me speechless as he curled his fingers around my arm and guided me toward the frantic group. “Murphy, what the fuck?! What about you?!”

“I'll be right behind ya!” Murphy yelled, grunting sharply as I yanked my arm from his grasp and turned to face him. Taking my face in his hands, he kissed me again. I could feel him quivering against me. “Ya have to go,” he murmured against my lips. “Ya gotta blend in, okay?”

“Promise me that you'll be right behind me!” I demanded, tears of horror brimming my eyes. “Fucking promise me, Murphy!”

Again, he kissed me. “ _Go deo le leat,_ ” he whispered. 

“What does that mean?”

“It means 'forever with ya.' It means I'm comin' back for ya, no matter what happens or where ya are. I love ya, Riddles. I love ya more than anythin'. And I'm comin' back for ya.”

Roughly, he shoved me into the breast of a rather large woman who easily swept me away with her. I fought against the current, shrieking for Murphy and ordering people out of my way, but my voice was lost. Once outside, four pairs of hands circled around various part of my body. Kicking and biting at anything I could, I struggled against them until I heard a single voice.

“Ridley,” Smecker barked, his ragged face coming into my view. “Here's how this is going to work: you're going to quit throwing your goddamn temper tantrum and we're getting the fuck out of here.” 

I dropped my gun, my fingers desperately gripping for his shirt. “B-But Murphy and Connor and Noah--”

“They're coming back.” His voice was so tight with stress that I wasn't even sure if he moved his mouth at all. “We have to get you out of here so they have something to come back to.” 

Still, I defied him. As he and the detectives pushed and pulled me into an unmarked van, I scratched and headbutted whatever body part I could reach. At some point, Smecker handed Dolly a rag and told him to hold it to my nose. Hesitantly, he did and the world shut me out.

(-)

I waited for someone who didn't show his face for eight years. 


	25. The Appearance of Ghosts

_Now._

“Please leave a message after the tone.”

_Beep._

“Hey, Mom and Dad, it's Ridley. Just wanted to let you know that I'm going on vacation – with Eunice, if you can believe that. We're getting along better than ever. Anyway, just wanted to let you know that I'll be gone for a few months and not to worry about me. I'll grab you guys some key chains from Florida, okay? I...I love you both.”

I hang up the phone, my eyes lingering on the stranger staring at me through the reflection of the screen. This new woman, a brunette with false hazel eyes, is someone I'm still getting used to being. Part of me accepts that I can't be who I've been for the last twenty-nine years of my life, but the other part is still seething. 

Reaching to my hair, I frown at the length. I'd spent so long growing it out and when Eunice practically ordered Dolly and Duffy to hold me in place while she snipped away all my hard work, I couldn't help but cry. Not only did I cry for my hair, but I cried for the fact that I'd have to leave my two remaining detectives, Doc, and Shauna soon. 

The detectives were easy to say goodbye to. They understood completely why we had to do this, although the doubt in their eyes gave away the fact that deep down, they thought it was a lost cause. Shauna wasn't as easy. She'd called me the day after Noah died and told me that she'd dreamed about me. As I sat on the phone with her and listened to her rant and rave about this guy she met at her new job, my hands shook and my mouth ran dry. I didn't have the heart to tell her, so I left her with a simple, “Yeah. We'll get coffee next week. See you then.” 

Doc, on the other hand, ordered Eunice and I go. We hadn't completely told him what exactly we were doing, but the boys were in trouble and that was all he cared about. After a round of drinks, he practically shoved us from the bar with his cane. 

Three heavy knocks at my front door snap me from my gaze at the woman in my phone. Shoving it into my pocket, I hurry to answer it, trying to pay no mind to my empty apartment. I'd sold all my furniture and belongings a week ago, and sleeping in Murphy's old bed at the speakeasy was more comfortable than my own anyway. As a form of nostalgic torture to myself, I'd come back just to see my home again. And now, for the last time, I was walking out the door.

“Ready?” Eunice questions as I yank the door open. At first, with her black bobbed haircut and hot pink lipstick, I don't recognize her. She's stressed to all hell; her fingernails have been bitten raw and there are bags of exhaustion underneath her eyes. She hardly looks like my cousin, but I'm more than relieved to see her. 

“Yeah, I just...” I exhale sharply, glancing back at my apartment. “Oh, God, this is a lot harder than I'd thought it be.” 

“Do you need me to do it, baby cousin?”

“No, I'll do it.” I hold the key in my palm – the same key I'd fretted over losing so many times just to find it at the bottom of my purse or that extra pocket on my pants I always forget about. 

Closing my eyes, I envision everything the way it was before Murphy. I picture Trevor in all his nightmarish glory throwing broken beer bottles at me from across the room and throwing me against the walls. I picture Murphy and Connor lounging on the couch, both offering cheeky grins as I walked in from a crappy day at work. I picture Murphy tangled in my sheets, his soft snores lulling me to sleep as his arms circle around my body. 

“Goodbye, smelly apartment,” I say, tossing the key into the living room and closing the door. “Hopefully the managers make it in here before the hobos do.”

(-)

“You can't keep the phone.”

“Excuse me? Do you pay the bill for this thing?”

Eunice and I sit on opposite ends of the taxi cab, a stubborn glare electrifying between us. I grip my phone as tightly as I possibly can to be sure she can't get her hands on it. “If anyone manages to get a hold of that,” she starts, hushing her tone so the driver can't overhear, “you and I are both fucked. And if we're fucked, the boys are fucked.”

She knows bringing up the boys is a low blow at the moment. Still, I refuse to hand it over. “These are the only pictures I have left of Murphy,” I retort curtly. “I am _not_ about to just throw those down the drain.”

With a heavy, irritated sigh, Eunice leans back in her seat and fishes through her purse. After a moment of rifling through the countless amounts of papers, she produces a slightly crumpled photo. “Here,” she snaps, holding it toward me. 

Taking it into my free hand, I inspect it carefully. It's an old, black-and-white photo of a woman and two babies. “Where'd you get this?” I question, thinking back to the few times I've seen it before. 

Once was when I'd first met Noah. He'd shown it to me the moment we were alone. With tears brimming his eyes, he'd pointed out which twin was which, his voice trembling with pride. The second time had been recent, after Greenley died and we found our way to Romeo's uncle's home. Noah had been sitting alone at the dining table as I passed by in a daze, silently staring at it as if it held the answer to life. 

“You were clutchin' the thing for dear life when the guys and I found you after the shootout,” Eunice explains slowly, her eyes glimmering with a hint of concern possibly for my mental health. “You don't remember?”

I shake my head, my eyes locked on the young child I know is Murphy and thinking how fortunate it was that they looked more distinct as they grew older. “I must've...I don't know. I was freaking out then.”

My cousin extends her palm toward me as the cab comes to a halt. With my stomach twisting into knots, I hesitantly drop my phone into her hand, open the door, and step out onto the sidewalk. Eunice stalls to pay our fare before exiting from her side.

As the cab drives away, I take a second to stare at the shattered mess of what used to be my phone lying on the concrete before following Eunice down the paved road in front of us.

(-)

If I knew I'd be walking three miles in the same direction, I would have picked a better choice of shoes. I'm not as graceful as Eunice in heels and by the time either of us say anything, my feet are throbbing. All I want to do is rip them off and throw them into the approaching ocean waters.

“Who exactly are we meeting?” I question. 

“I'm not entirely sure,” Eunice admits as she pulls a small scrawl of paper from her purse. As she reads, she chews on a piece of gum. I mentally picture a cow chewing on cud. “We took a taxi to that location...Hm, okay. There should be a boathouse coming up--”

“There it is!” I raise a finger toward a diminutive, pale blue boathouse. On cue, a large figure emerges from the doorway and comes to a standstill facing us. Eunice and I instinctively slow our pace as we try to size up this unknown person. “You don't happen to have a gun on you, do you?”

“No, but I can do some hellacious things with mace. C'mon.” She urges forward and I have no choice but to follow her. 

The closer we get, the less intimidated by this person I feel. “Hello,” he greets us with a slight head bow. Dressed in pure black, the only item of color on his costume is the clerical collar around his neck. “Eunice Bloom and Ridley Gillespie, I assume?” He speaks with a thick Irish accent. I swallow the hard lump forming in my throat. 

“And you are?” Eunice spits. 

He holds what looks like two pamphlets in his hands as he crosses them over the front of himself. “You may call me Father Sibeal. I'm the one who left you directions to this place.” His lips curl into a smile. Holding the pamphlets out to us, I realize they're passports. “Here you are. Already in your names.”

I let out a sigh of relief. If I can't keep my appearances, I'm thankful enough to keep my name. “What else is in here?” I open my passport and find myself in shock at the picture inside. The woman isn't me, but with my new alterations, she's strikingly similar. 

“Money, contacts, and a map to your final destination,” Father Sibeal explains as he guides Eunice and I toward the boathouse. 

“Which is?”

“The monastery at Saint Escazu.”

The closer we get to the boathouse, the more it reeks of fish. I cover my nose and mouth with my hand, trying my hardest not to retch at the smell. I'd always disliked that stench, but now it's a thousand times worse. 

Eunice and Father Sibeal break off into their own conversation of where we're going. After relying solely on my cousin to get things done these last two weeks, I've learned to let her handle affairs I don't quite understand. Besides, something else has grabbed my attention.

On the other side of the boathouse, sitting in a plastic chair facing the docks, another man sits silently. He holds a fishing pole in his hand, and beside the chair is an empty wooden fish bucket. His profile seems oddly familiar, but I can't place my finger quite on it. Instead of listening to Eunice and Father Sibeal blabber on and on, I take this chance to make my way toward this unknown man.

The moment his head turns toward me, my breath hitches in my throat and my legs feel as though they've turned to jelly. My hand moves to my mouth to suppress a shriek of shock, bewilderment, and hurt. 

“Smecker?” I choke out, my voice forcing that lopsided grin onto his face. 

“My, my, Ridley. How you've grown. I barely recognize you now. Then again, that's what you're going for, right?” 

There are so many things I want to say, so many emotions coursing through me at once. My hands feel numb, so instead of pinching myself to see if I'm dreaming, I press my tongue between my teeth and bite down hard. Pain lights up in my mouth, so this is some sort of sick joke. 

Smecker is supposed to be dead, not sitting in front of me, waiting for fish to bite like some sort of retiree. 

“I know what you're thinking,” Smecker says as he sets his fishing pole on the ground and stands to his feet. “This must be a sick joke or something, huh?” 

How in the hell?

“If you're done standing there staring at me like you've seen a ghost, why don't we go rescue your boyfriend? It's funny how the tides have finally turned, isn't it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it is done! After two and a half years, Against The Odds is finished! Honestly, I'm having a hard time believing it. 
> 
> Before I officially wrap this story up, I need to say a few thank yous. 
> 
> One! To [Audriss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Audriss) for reading all my chapters both here and on Wattpad. She's never failed to give amazing feedback that just fueled my fire to write this, and she writes some pretty awesome Norman Reedus/Daryl Dixon stories! So, go check them out!
> 
> Two! Through this story (as well as another), I was lucky enough to have a beta reader discover me: [m r s . w r i t i n g](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/1551374/m-r-s-w-r-i-t-i-n-g) from ff.net. She has stuck with me since the very beginning, took time out of her busy schedule to pick through my chapters for mistakes, and stayed up late to have brainstorming sessions with me on Skype. I'm more than lucky to call this talented woman my best friend. She also writes some fantastic Boondock Saints/The Walking Dead fics, so go check those out, too!
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who has read even a few chapters! Without all your support, this would have never gotten finished. 
> 
> Until next time!


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